Shayna and Calenhad
by LMSharp
Summary: When Duncan told Gwyn Cousland to seek out another Grey Warden, she went looking for another middle-aged, grim-faced veteran. She found instead a young man with a hauntingly familiar face. She had no idea she had also found her destiny. A series of one-shots following Alistair and Gwyn Cousland through the Fifth Blight. Will go slightly AU at the end. Revised and updated.
1. Castle to Knight

i.

Castle to Knight

GWYN

The Circle mage stalked off, and the young knight turned so I could see him clearly for the first time. He gave me a wry grin. "One good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together," he drawled.

I was less than pleased, not least because he had caught me eavesdropping, and if the young man looked for me to share in his amusement, he was mistaken. Even were I in a humor to laugh, the disagreement I had witnessed, in the current climate, would not strike me as funny. And while the mage had certainly begun the altercation, the knight had hardly attempted to defuse the situation.

"Indeed. If all our mages are as courteous as that man, and all our knights as diplomatic as you are, ser, the darkspawn are sure to be swept away before our united front. Good day to you." I moved to pass the young man. The day was waning, and I had my instructions from Duncan. He had said Alistair was in the encampment; there could not be much more of it where the Warden could be. I'd been foolish to tarry as long as I had. Who knew what Duncan's ritual entailed?

Instead of having the sense to step aside and let me be about my business, however, the young man rubbed the back of his neck with his gauntlet and stood around looking chastened. "I . . . uh . . . I suppose I could have . . . er . . . handled the situation better, couldn't I? Wait, we haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?"

I sighed. "Would that make your day worse?"

He shrugged. "Hardly. I just like to know my chances of being turned into a toad at any given moment."

I had caught him off guard at first, but he certainly rebounded quickly. This one didn't lack for wit, in any event, however inappropriate and untimely it might be. "I imagine among mages that must be a worry for _you_ , ser," I conceded. "Fortunately for you, I am no mage, and you are safe from me." I bowed. "Gwyn is my name."

He stood up straighter, then, and all at once the fool was gone, replaced by a soldier coming back on duty. His eyes narrowed, and he looked hard at me. "Wait, I know that name. You're Duncan's new recruit from Highever. I should have recognized you right away. I apologize."

I couldn't help blinking. " _You're_ Alistair?" _Plague on it, girl, what did you expect him to look like?_ I wondered.

Certainly not like this. For whatever reason, when Duncan had sent me to find the other Grey Warden in the camp, I had been expecting another grim and grizzled veteran, but Alistair was young. Very young. He couldn't be much older than me; I doubted he'd been shaving five years.

"Did Duncan mention me?" he wanted to know. "Nothing bad I hope." He cracked a hopeful smile, and I frowned. _Uncanny._ For a split second there, it had been as if I looked into someone else's face. I looked more closely at him, trying to place just who it was that this Alistair reminded me of. "As the junior member of the order," he explained, "I'll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining."

 _Leave it, Gwyn. You've a task before you._ I bowed again. "I am honored."

Alistair looked me up and down, assessing me. "You know, it just occurred to me that there have never been many women in the Grey Wardens," he observed, not as if he were worried about it, merely as though it had honestly just struck his attention. "I wonder why that is?"

My father's voice spoke in my head. _Don't ever let them sell you short, pup. I taught my little girl to defend her name and her home as well as her brother._

I swallowed. _But did you? If Fergus had been there, would you have died, Father?_

Nevertheless, I drew our family sword from the double sheath on my hip. I lifted it and turned it smoothly for Alistair to see. He watched silently. "Don't fear for me, ser. I can defend myself, aye, and press an attack as well."

The corners of Alistair's mouth turned up. His frank hazel eyes glinted with appreciation and respect. "I'm getting that impression," he said. I sheathed my sword. "So, I'm curious. Have you ever actually encountered darkspawn before?"

I had not, but hearing of them, knowing they were out there in the Wilds, I wondered if by now, Fergus had. What if they slew him, too? I dropped my eyes. "Have you?"

Alistair shifted, and his voice dropped. "When I fought my first one, I wasn't prepared for how monstrous it was. I can't say I'm looking forward to encountering another."

There was something. A man that openly confessed to fear before a woman, the acquaintance of five minutes, rather than attempting to boast of his feats. Yet Alistair did not strike me as a coward. I looked him over—his broad shoulders neither stooped nor quivered, and when I looked into his face, he met my gaze without shame. _No, if I am any judge of character, when this man met the darkspawn he fought well, and bravely._ It occurred to me that Alistair was rather beautiful, actually, with his close-cropped fair hair and open expression, tall and well-formed. Yet I couldn't shake that feeling of familiarity, the haunting sensation that I'd seen him somewhere before, though I well knew we'd never met. _This is going to drive me mad._

I'd been staring too long without speaking. The tips of Alistair's ears turned red, and he turned away with a nervous laugh. "Anyhow. Whenever you're ready, let's get back to Duncan. I imagine he's eager to get things started."

My face had warmed, too. I was embarrassed to have forgotten my manners so far twice in so short a span. _If only I could think who it is he reminds me of!_ Nevertheless, he was right, so I gestured back toward the main encampment, and Alistair fell into step beside me.

The silence stretched between us. To fill it, I asked, "So what was that argument I saw about?"

Alistair seemed relieved, too, to have something to say. "With the mage? The Circle is here at the king's request," he explained. "And the Chantry doesn't like that one bit. They just love letting mages know how unwelcome they are, which puts me in a bit of an awkward position. You see, I was once a Templar."

I slowed, and looked up at him, feeling guilty I'd blamed him so severely at first. There had hardly been a way he could act that the mage would have welcomed him, then. "That would be awkward," I murmured.

Alistair shrugged. For all he could hardly have helped the confrontation with the mage, he apparently wasn't too bothered by it. "The Chantry raised me until Duncan recruited me six months ago," he went on. "I'm sure the Reverend Mother meant it as an insult, sending me as her messenger, and the mage picked right up on that. I never would've agreed to deliver it, but Duncan says we're all to cooperate and get along. Apparently they didn't get the same speech."

Relations between the Chantry and the mages were hardly a pleasant topic, so I let it go, and asked Alistair instead if he would be helping the other recruits prepare for the Joining as well.

"Daveth and Ser Jory? Yes. They're wandering around the camp somewhere. Have you met them?"

"Yes, both of them."

"That makes things easy then," Alistair said with satisfaction. "They'll both be back with Duncan by now."

"Right then," I said as we approached Duncan's campfire. I shot a glance at my strange, eerily familiar companion. "I look forward to traveling with you," I added, somewhat surprised to find that I was, actually. At the very least, Alistair promised to be interesting.

Alistair blinked down at me. "You do? That's a switch. If you have any questions, just let me know."

I nodded to let him know that I would, and we hailed Duncan so he could tell us all about the Joining.

* * *

 **A/N: Just a little edit of the original. First person reads better for these stories.**


	2. In Death, Sacrifice

ii.

In Death, Sacrifice

GWYN

My companions and I left the main road to clean up by the river, leaving the bodies of the bandits where they lay on the highway. Killing reasonable creatures always left a sour taste in my mouth, but they had refused to face justice with honor. Their deaths had been clean. They had only asked for mercy when it had become clear they were outmatched, and before, they had been ready to murder us for a few silvers. Better to think of the helpless refugees they had probably killed in the past, and the many that would be spared that fate in the future because we had struck them down.

We all drank our fill from the river, and refilled the water skins without speaking. Then we climbed back up the hill to the road. We crested the top of the hill and saw the village below, golden in the morning light.

"Well there it is," Alistair said. "Lothering. Pretty as a painting."

"Ah, so you have finally decided to rejoin us, have you? Falling on your blade in grief seemed like too much trouble, I take it?"

The condescension in Morrigan's tone was thicker than plate armor. I rolled my eyes. As he had antagonized the mage at Ostagar, so Alistair had antagonized the apostate at our first meeting in the Wilds. Apparently, Morrigan was the sort to hold a grudge. She had clearly decided to dislike my companion, and had already begun to needle him at every opportunity. Not that the dislike was at all one-sided. Alistair's deep suspicion of apostates was not unreasonable, but it was perhaps especially pronounced due to his upbringing in the Chantry. And trained as a Templar, he had not developed the diplomatic abilities most everyone else possessed not to share their suspicions _with_ apostates. Instead, Alistair was trained to attack them. The Blight had forced us to work with one, but still he would not curb his tongue or check his manner, any more than Morrigan herself would.

It was already looking as though it would be a long, long road.

Alistair was trying to defend himself. "Is my being upset so hard to understand? Have you never lost someone important to you? Just what would you do if your mother died?"

 _Yes, because that appeal is certain to move her heart._ One of the first things I had noticed about Morrigan and Flemeth was the strain between them.

Indeed, Morrigan returned coolly, "Before or after I stopped laughing?"

Although I had guessed at the sentiment, the sheer callousness of the witch's reply caught me by surprise, and I averted my eyes, disturbed. Alistair folded his arms. "Right. Very creepy. Forget I asked."

I sighed. "Alistair. You had something you wanted to discuss?"

"His navel, I suspect," Morrigan interjected. "He certainly has been contemplating it long enough." She smiled, pleased with her own wit.

Alistair was not so pleased. "Oh, I get it. This is the part where we're shocked to discover how you've never had a friend your entire life."

"I can be friendly when I desire to. Alas, desiring to be more intelligent does not make it so," Morrigan returned, the flash of her eyes and the sharpness of her retort revealing that Alistair had struck nearer the truth than she liked.

I'd had enough. "Morrigan. We have enemies enough trying to kill us without helping them along." Morrigan raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips, but subsided with a frosty bow. I looked at my other companion. "Alistair? Please," I said, gesturing for him to speak his piece.

His ears were red, and he cleared his throat. "I just thought we should talk about where we intend to go from here," he said apologetically.

I looked down at the village. Refugees were camped around the outskirts, hanging laundry, trading goods, searching for friends and companions. I wondered where the tavern was. The tavern was the beating heart of any rural village. There would be news there regarding any soldiers who had escaped from Ostagar. "I need to look for Fergus," I muttered. "He wasn't in the battle. He might still be alive."

The silence lingered, until I looked back at my companions to see them staring at me with completely blank expressions. "I'm sorry," Alistair said finally. "Who is Fergus?"

He had been so much in my thoughts it surprised me, but of course they would not know. "My brother," I explained. "King Cailan said he was out scouting in the wilds before the battle."

Morrigan sniffed. "Attempting to look for him there would be foolish," she said. "He is either dead or he managed to flee to the north."

Alistair shot her a disgusted look. "Very sensitive."

Morrigan spread her hands. "I am simply saying that it is foolish to mount a rescue when you have no notion where this man is and the Wilds are overrun with darkspawn," she reasoned. "You will either find him somewhere outside the Wilds with other survivors, or not at all."

My fists clenched and unclenched as I regarded the witch. I remembered those corpses in the Wilds, in the tower, turning on spits over the darkspawns' filthy fires. Heads on pikes, contorted, blackened, and rotted beyond all recognition. Had my brother been one of them? Was he now?

Or was he still alive, wandering somewhere with no idea, no inkling that our father and mother were dead, his wife and son murdered with them, and that their murderer held his teyrnir?

King Cailan Theirin had promised to bring Howe to justice.

Cailan lay dead on the field at Ostagar.

I swallowed, but could not dissolve the lump that had risen like a stone in my throat. I blinked—once, twice, thrice—trying to dispel the heat from my face, the burning tears that suddenly clouded my vision. "You don't understand," I insisted. "I _have_ to find him."

Morrigan shook her head. "You wish to do this brother of yours a service? Avenge him. The time to look for survivors will come later."

Vengeance? She spoke of vengeance? I didn't know he was dead! Before I knew what I did, I had rounded on Morrigan with a strangled cry. My hand had flown to the hilt of my dagger, and the witch's golden eyes widened—not in fear, but in surprise. Alistair darted between us, holding up his hands, but I'd already stopped.

"Hey, hey! We have to work together here."

I'd already dropped my hand. I stared at Morrigan, then groaned, and raked my fingers through my hair. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Cavall, good dog, sensing my distress, whined and pressed his body up against my leg. I put my hand on his broad, warm head.

Everything that had happened was breaking over me again like a tidal wave. _My father is dead. My mother is dead. Oriana and Oren are dead. All our knights are dead. Howe holds our lands and our people, and I cannot help them or seek justice, because the king is dead, too, and Alistair and I are the only two Grey Wardens left to stand against the Blight._

Alistair was still watching me. He was ready to intervene if it looked like I would get violent again, but he watched with more sympathy than wariness now. "You're close to your brother," he murmured.

I tried to explain. "Yes, but that's not the only—he's the only—"I couldn't. The lump in my throat had stolen my voice, and I was crying too hard to see now. I groaned again, and waved the others away, begging them to spare me my dignity.

I turned and all but ran. Just a moment, just a few moments. Then I'd go on.

I stopped walking perhaps a quarter mile past the village and sat down on the wall by the highway. For the first time since the fall of Castle Cousland, I gave in to the grief.

A fortnight. Only a fortnight since the entire world had shattered. With Duncan and the king dead, everyone who knew what Howe had done, everyone capable of giving me justice had died, too, and I was well and truly alone.

So I would not seek out Fergus. Morrigan was right, of course. I could ask in the village, but if Fergus was not here now, he was still in the wilds or he had already passed on, and we did not have the time to search for him. We had another duty—to fight the Blight. It would be comical, if it weren't so tragic and terrifying. I was a raw recruit to the Wardens, and Alistair was hardly better, with only six months more experience, and the two of us and a cold, cruel apostate mage were the only hope for Ferelden.

A cold, wet nose nudged under the curve of my arm, and my faithful hound whined again. I looked up into his big brown eyes. He had followed me out here. I stroked his short, coarse fur. "Oh, Cavall, what are we going to do?" I whispered.

He whimpered, pawing at my knee, and I threw my arms around the last friend I had left from Highever and sobbed. I sobbed until my chest ached and my face was hot, until my eyes were swollen and my throat was raw. I punched the wall beside me with futile fists until they bruised and my helpless rage had faded into quiet. Then I let Cavall lick away the tears from my fevered face, and I listened to the sound of his breathing, until I heard the fall of boots down the road.

* * *

ALISTAIR

I hadn't been certain I should really go after her, but since the alternative was staying with Morrigan, eventually I did head in the direction Gwyn had gone. She hadn't gone far past the village. She was sitting on a wall by the highway, arms around her mabari like she was about to break apart.

She'd been crying. Her nose was all red, and her eyelashes were all clumped together and wet with tears. She looked like a little girl. I really hadn't noticed before. She was always so strong and composed, so brave in the middle of the worst crises, but now I realized she didn't actually look much older than I was. Maybe twenty at the most.

She was lost in whatever sad memories she'd run out here to feel alone, stroking Cavall's coat and staring at the sky. She didn't acknowledge me for a long moment. When she did, she looked behind me for Morrigan. "Morrigan's at the gate where you left us," I told her. "At least, I think she is. Honestly, I don't care." I did, a little, but only because the sisters would have never let me hear the end of it for letting an apostate go free. Especially one as unpleasant as Morrigan. Who knew what she'd get up to on her own?

Gwyn's jaw was tight. She was obviously still angry at Morrigan, too. "I didn't ask her to come with us," she said in a low voice. Then she sighed. "But I'm glad of her help, however . . . abrasive . . . she may be. It's hardly her fault, after all. I doubt she's ever had a proper conversation in her life. Can you imagine? Living alone, with just that—"she shook her head, dropping her own issues with the witch for the time being. "She tread on sensitive ground," she admitted instead. "She could hardly know it, but there it is."

I hadn't figured out yet if Gwyn was one of those who sympathized with apostates, or whether she was just pragmatic enough to leave behind her scruples so long as we needed the witch, but at any rate, it looked as if we would not be ditching Morrigan in the near future. I put aside my disappointment. We had more pressing problems.

The truth was, perhaps Morrigan had had a point back at the gate. I'd been so absorbed with my own grief, I hadn't noticed Gwyn's. Now I couldn't believe I had missed it. She'd been so understanding with me. Now it was my turn. The two of us were all we had out here, all alone against the Blight. If we weren't there for one another, our counterattack was doomed before it ever got off the ground.

I kept a wary eye on her hound as I sat down. So far, Cavall had been friendly enough to us all, but I had seen him rip out the throats of darkspawn on the road, and when we'd encountered those bandits, he'd gone straight for the men's most sensitive areas. Like he'd been trained. But he only lifted his head from his mistress's lap to whine at me and moved his hindquarters a few inches to the right, like he was giving me more room.

"Gwyn—"I hazarded at last. "Can you talk to me? This—"I gestured at her red, snotty face, the way she was hugging her dog, like he was the only thing in the world she could count on, feeling totally out of my depth. One thing I did know. "This isn't the Wardens. You didn't know them like I did. It's deeper than that. I thought something was wrong when we met. You were so . . . distant." I frowned, and on a hunch I asked, "What happened in Highever before Duncan recruited you? Some of the Wardens were . . . saved, for lack of a better word. They came to the Wardens because they had nowhere else to go. Well, you heard Daveth's story. They were going to hang him. Was it . . . was it like that for you?"

I knew by the way her face darkened and went all bleak and lonely that I was on the right track, and my heart sank, but she was quiet for so long that I was almost sure she wasn't going to tell me when she finally spoke. "My name is Gwyn," she whispered then. "Gwyn _Cousland_. I was the second child of Bryce Cousland and his wife Eleanor, teyrn and teyrna of Highever."

The sound of the grief in her voice was enough to send a shiver down my spine. Cousland. I knew that name. Eamon and Teagan had known the Couslands. They were the noblest family in Ferelden, with a line older than even the Theirins. Practically princes and princesses. It seemed that bad things were happening all over. "Was?" I repeated. "So you—"

Now that she'd started speaking, though, the words just came tumbling out of her, like she'd been holding them back for ages. "The king called his forces to Ostagar. Our friend, Arl Howe, was to come with his soldiers to leave with my father and our knights in the morning, while my brother went ahead with some of our other forces. My mother was going to go to visit a friend of hers, while I was to remain behind to guard our lands. It was to be the first time I was ever charged with such a responsibility. Duncan had come to test one of our knights, Ser Roland Gilmore, as a possible recruit to the Grey Wardens. When we met, he told my father I was also a good candidate, but my father refused. There weren't any others of us, just me and Fergus. He didn't want to lose all his children to the Blight. Duncan wasn't going to press the issue."

Right away I knew this was not going to be a happily-ever-after type of story. Because Gwyn had come to Ostagar, and she had been recruited. Something had changed. This was going to be one of those cheery Grey Warden fireside tales where everyone died in the end. "What happened?" I asked her. I almost didn't want to hear, but I knew if I was going to claim to be her friend, her partner in this, I had to hear it to the bitter end.

"Howe's men," Gwyn answered. "They attacked in the middle of the night. We never saw it coming. Arl Howe had always been our friend. He used the Blight, the king, as an excuse to bring his soldiers to our home . . . and then he took his chance. They'd taken the castle before we knew what had happened. They killed my brother's wife—my sister-in-law—and her son. They were unarmed, defenseless. Oren—my nephew—he wasn't even seven years old. My mother and I saw their bodies on the floor, dismembered, hacked to pieces . . ."

She was crying again now, and shaking. Trembling like she couldn't stop, and the expression on her face frightened me. She was looking straight ahead, but she wasn't seeing the road and the grass and the sky. I could tell she was seeing her sister-in-law's and nephew's mutilated bodies before her. How long ago had this been? Days? Just a few weeks? And she'd been walking around all this time, keeping quiet and carrying it with her.

The reckless question I had asked her yesterday morning came back to me then, and I was so disgusted I thought I might be sick. I'd asked her if she'd ever lost someone close to her. She'd only said yes, at the time, but she'd had _this_. _How could I have been so stupid?_

She was still talking, lost in the nightmare she had witnessed. "My mother and I found weapons, a servant, a man-at-arms. We fought our way through Howe's men—this—"She drew her sword then from its place on the bottom of her double hip sheath, and held it out for me to examine. I had seen it before, in the ruins, when she fought at close quarters. It was a fine blade, centuries old, but only now did I realize it was an heirloom weapon. "This is the only thing we could save from our home," she told me. "They tore apart our chapel, killed my tutor, my mother's friend, her son and lady-in-waiting . . . Ser Gilmore held the gates with just a few knights to give my mother and me time to escape through the servant's exit in the larder. I heard . . . I heard them break through." She paused, swallowed, and sheathed her sword. "Howe's men had already found my father once when we found him. Duncan . . . Duncan helped him escape to the servant's exit. But . . . not in time. He'd been wounded. He was dying. I wanted to get him out of there. I begged Duncan to help me save him, help to get him and my mother and all of us away, but . . . it was too late. My father . . . couldn't be saved. Duncan promised my father he'd get _me_ out. Me and my mother, but only if . . . only if . . ."

Now I saw it. "Only if your father agreed to let you join the Wardens," I finished for her, hating the conclusion I'd come to, but Gwyn's eyes flashed and her jaw tightened, and when she hastily glanced at me then dropped her eyes again, I knew I was right.

I'd known back at Flemeth's that she'd only inquired about Duncan to be kind. She hadn't known him like I had, but I realized now that to Gwyn, Duncan had probably been a very different figure. To my companion, Duncan was the man that had killed Ser Jory at her Joining. To her, he was the man that had taken her away from her dying father. Looking at her now, it wasn't hard to guess that she had probably hated him. I wondered if in her place I would feel any different. I'd always known Duncan was a man who did what he had to for the Grey Wardens. I had never felt what it was like to be on the wrong end of that. Gwyn had.

It baffled me now that she still wouldn't say it, wouldn't blame or speak ill of the man, regardless of what he had done to her. Even now, half mad with grief and loneliness, she wouldn't mention it, out of courtesy to my memories of the man. It was a level of kindness I'd never seen, directed at me. She just sat there, hugging Cavall, which I realized now might actually _be_ the last connection she had to her old life.

"I agreed," she said, "Because my father asked me to agree, to save myself and to see justice done to Howe. But then my mother . . . she refused to leave him. She was fine!" Gwyn declared, glaring at me through her tears, daring me to defy her. "I'd kept her safe! But she said she'd slow us down, that her place was with my father, that she'd keep Howe's men from following us . . . and . . ." Gwyn stopped her tale, hissing, and with another look at me, shook her head.

She wouldn't go on, and a stone dropped into my stomach as I realized what must have happened. Duncan had dragged her away, hadn't he? He'd saved her for the Wardens, but he'd saved her against her will, and left her mother to the death she had chosen. I sighed. "I—I'm so sorry," I said. There were no words big and grand enough to make her feel better about what she had lost. "I had no idea."

She laughed once, a bitter, angry, empty bark. "Fergus is the only one left. He doesn't know. He doesn't know our parents are dead, his wife and son are dead. He doesn't know he's teyrn and we need to reclaim Highever from their murderer. And I can't go look for him to tell him." It seemed as if she'd calmed, but all at once she hit the wall beside her with her fist, hard. I looked, and saw it was already bruised. She'd been doing it already. She raised her hand to hit again, but before I knew what I was doing, I'd reached out and caught her wrist.

She whipped her head around, glaring at me so ferociously I wanted to run, but I couldn't let her hurt herself. "Look, forget what Morrigan said—"I started.

"She's right," Gwyn interrupted. "We can ask around the refugee camp, at the tavern, see if anyone's seen him, but that's all we have time for. Odds are, if he passed this way he's already gone, and if he hasn't—"she drew in a breath. "If he hasn't, he won't be coming. And it's not my concern anymore."

"That's not true," I said at once—more, I think, because I couldn't bear to hear her despair than because I believed it. She was already shaking her head. She knew she was right. I knew she was right.

"'In death, sacrifice,'" Gwyn recited. I'd always known the Warden's motto was grim, but the way she said it, the words were as cold as carved stone on an epitaph. "We start dying the minute the chalice touches our lips, don't we?" She looked at me, searching for confirmation, I guess. I'd been a Warden longer than she. "We kill everything we were before, everything we'd ever hoped to be or do in the future, and we spend the rest of our days dying, sacrificing our lives for a victory we never live to enjoy. And this time, who's to say we're dying for a victory at all, Alistair? If it's all for _nothing_ , if we can't stop the Blight—"

It was too horrible to contemplate. For a time, at least, I had gained more than I lost, joining the Wardens. Only now did I realize how great the sacrifice could be. For the first time, I felt the taint working in me, a slow-acting poison, and I saw the shadow of it in her. It couldn't all be for nothing. I wouldn't allow it.

I hadn't realized I still had her hand before I'd brought it to me, right over my heart. I froze for a split second, and so did she. I'd surprised both of us with the gesture. "We will," I promised her. "We will defeat the Blight, Gwyn. You and me. For Duncan. For all of them. For your family, we will stop the Blight. Then we'll find your brother, and we'll see this Howe pay for what he's done. I swear it."

Her eyes softened, and she murmured, "So did the king. And yet?" She moved her other arm, drawing a circle that encompassed the two of us, the road, and everything that had happened at Ostagar. Then, gently, she extricated her hand from mine. "You're very sweet," she told me. "But let's not make promises we can't keep. We don't know what's going to happen. There aren't any guarantees. Fergus might already be dead, and if that's the case, so are the Couslands. I'm a Warden now, whether I like it or not. I have a duty. Even if it kills me. 'In death, sacrifice.'" She closed her eyes, shuddered once. She scratched Cavall's ears, and her hound turned his head to lick her fingers.

By the Maker, it _hurt_ , to see her so beautiful, and so sad, to be so utterly helpless to comfort her. The sun filtered through the clouds and shone on her dark brown hair. It lit it all up with red and gold, but for all that, it was cold, and Gwyn shivered again.

I wished I had a cloak or a jacket or something. Her battle leathers had probably been warm enough up north this time of year, but this far south, they didn't offer much in the way of protection from the cold. I hesitated. Very uncertain it was the right thing to do, I put my arm around her shoulders to keep her warm. "At least we're in this together, right?" She looked up at me, searching my face. "Please let me help," I begged her quietly.

She held my gaze for a long time. Her lips started to turn up, like she was going to smile, but then it all went horribly wrong, because she started crying again instead. "Maker help us, Alistair," she said, half-laughing, half-sobbing.

I just knew I'd bungled it, but then she just collapsed on me all of a sudden. I gasped in surprise and pulled her closer, more so she wouldn't fall off the wall than anything else, and she grabbed a fistful of my mail and buried her face in my shoulder, just _sobbing_ all over me.

I wanted to run, but I knew that was wrong. It seemed the only thing I could do was bring up my other arm and _hug_ her, except that felt wrong, too, because I knew I shouldn't be thinking about how well she fit in my arms, like she belonged there, when she was crying her eyes out. Maker, it felt like I might spontaneously burst into flames at any moment. Or like the Maker might start hurling lightning at me—and be right, too.

Most of all, I just wished she'd _stop_ the crying, because this time, I felt like it was somehow my fault. But she was clutching at me like she was frightened I'd disappear, so I had to have done something right, right?

 _Maker help us, indeed!_

In the end, it was all I could do to hold her, and rub her back like a moron, and wait for it to be over. I think it only lasted a few minutes, but it seemed like forever before she finally let go, stood, and scrubbed her cheeks with her hands.

I stood, too. "Are you ready to go on?" I murmured.

"No," she answered, "But we've got to, anyway."

That about summed it up, didn't it? Whether or not we were ready, we didn't have a choice. Ferelden was counting on us. It was probably about time we went back to find Morrigan and found out what they knew down in the town.

As if she'd read my mind, Gwyn said, "We should go find Morrigan. See what the news is in the town." She snapped her fingers at Cavall, and he fell in step at her heel, and we headed back down the road.


	3. Unimportant

iii.

Unimportant

GWYN

My great culinary effort was a lumpy, tasteless mess. The venison was charred beyond recognition, the vegetables undercooked, the broth weak. Although I had learned to hunt and dress my kills years ago, no one had ever taught me to _prepare_ the meat I killed. It hadn't been one of the many skills either of my parents thought I needed. At the end of each day, there was Nan, ready with the cleaver and the herbs, and praise for a clean kill or a complaint about the inconvenience of cooking it, depending on her mood. My old nurse, and our cook, had been as peppery as they came. How I missed her tonight.

I thought of the last time I had seen her, brained and beaten bloody, her body broken on the stone floor of the kitchen. I pushed my meal aside. If 'meal' it could even be called.

Idly, I regarded Morrigan across the camp. Now I wished I had asked her to help prepare our food. Alistair, well aware of his own culinary shortcomings before his turn ever came, it seemed, had asked her. I'd held back from pushing the matter. Morrigan clearly would never have accompanied us without her mother's command, and I'd wanted to assure her that despite her fears, she would not be a servant in our party but an honored companion. Still, I remembered the smell of the witch's stew. Held up next to my own paltry offering, there was no comparison.

Could Sten or Leliana cook? Sten had eaten his meal without comment, but the scowl he'd worn while eating it put his usual grim expression to shame. Leliana had praised my participatory spirit in the highest language, then taken three bites and politely lied that she was not hungry. At least Cavall was happy enough, gnawing the meaty bones by the fire, but Alistair, seated beside me, had an expression of noble forbearance as he worked his way through his portion.

Better if he had something to take his mind off it, I decided. "So tell me about yourself, Alistair. You said Arl Eamon raised you before you went to the Chantry?" Although we'd had much greater concerns at the time, I'd been very interested at Flemeth's when he'd mentioned that. Although some noblemen did take in orphans left on their lands, sharing their bounty with those less fortunate, it was hardly common practice, and I had not heard that Arl Eamon was particularly eccentric or compassionate in that way.

Alistair dropped his spoon in his bowl—a momentary slip, but enough for me to see my question had caught him off guard. "Did I say that?" he laughed. "I meant that dogs raised me. Giant, slobbering dogs from the Anderfels. A whole pack of them, in fact." He grinned at me, inviting me to share in his silliness, but there was a brittle, nervous edge to his smile.

I regarded him. Clearly a sensitive subject. However, Alistair's past was his business, so I smiled back at him and let it be. "Really? That must have been tough for them."

Alistair relaxed, and his grin widened. "Well, they were flying dogs, you see," he said in a confiding tone, building the tall tale even higher. "Surprisingly strict parents, too, and devoted Andrastians to boot."

I tilted my head knowingly, playing along. "Anders are supposed to be very religious."

"That, and to make a great deal of cheese." With that, Alistair looked down at his dinner, and I didn't have trouble imagining that he was wishing for a fine cheese right this moment. "Funny, but the dogs never mentioned cheese. As a matter of fact, if you said 'cheese' around them, they'd start growling. Isn't that odd? Or did I dream all of that?" He looked back over with his lopsided smile. "Funny, the dreams you'll have when you sleep on the cold, hard ground, isn't it? Are you having strange dreams?"

His smile irritated me. At times, it was like the sun shining through the clouds, but just now, his ridiculous grin was a mask, just like his babbling, and I found myself suddenly weary of the pretense. Alistair was by no means obliged to share his past with Arl Eamon with me, but if he was going to refuse to do so, I wished he'd just refuse and have done with it. I sighed. "Only the ones where the world is threatened by darkspawn."

That wiped the smile off Alistair's face fairly quickly, and he dropped his gaze. "Mm. Point taken." He tapped his fingers on his knee, seemed to size me up in a moment, then nodded, as if he'd made up his mind about something. "Let's see. How do I explain this? I'm a bastard." I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything, he rushed ahead. "And before you make any smart comments, I mean the fatherless kind. My mother was a serving girl in Redcliffe Castle who died when I was very young. Arl Eamon wasn't my father, but he took me in anyhow and put a roof over my head. He was good to me, and he didn't have to be. I respect the man, and I don't blame him anymore for sending me off to the Chantry once I was old enough."

The firelight cast its dancing light over Alistair's features, and I swallowed, hard. Since I'd first met Alistair, he'd strongly reminded me of someone, but until this very moment it had escaped me just who it was. Now I knew.

Alistair's hair was shorter. Strawberry blond instead of straw gold. He had hazel eyes instead of blue. His face was a bit more angular, his body naturally a bit more muscular, and of course, he was several years younger. But the resemblance was still striking. Uncanny.

 _Arl Eamon wasn't my father, but he took me in anyhow and put a roof over my head._

Arl _Eamon_.

Why would Eamon, not known for his charity toward the orphans of Redcliffe, take in and raise a bastard that wasn't his own? Answer: he wouldn't, unless he knew the father of said bastard, especially if that father were important, and the raising of the child consequently also important. And twenty years ago, Eamon Guerrin had been on confidential terms with the most important man in Ferelden.

There was a warm wetness on my palms, and I looked down to see that I'd been clenching my fists so hard my nails had broken skin. I realized I was hyperventilating. It was impossible. I would have heard. There would have been talk at court. What I suspected couldn't be true. Keeping my voice as tightly under control as I could under the circumstances, I repeated, "The arl wasn't your father? So you know who is?"

Alistair's answer was just as careful as my question, his face just as tightly controlled, revealing nothing. "I know who I was told was my father. He died even before my mother died, anyhow."

If it were true, of course, there was no cause for concern. If Alistair's father had died before a mother he did not even remember, he could not be who I now suspected he was. But the care he'd taken with his answer chilled me all over. "You know who you were told was your father," I echoed. I took another deep breath, and leaned forward, clutching the hem of my shirt in my fists. "But do you believe what you were told? Alistair—"

Alistair hesitated. He looked torn, but finally shook his head. "It isn't important."

I stared at him, then nodded slowly. I had to believe that he would tell me if it was as I feared. If it was what I thought, after the Battle of Ostagar, not to tell me would be the grossest irresponsibility.

Oh, Maker. The battle. Cailan had assigned Alistair to accompany me to the Tower of Ishal. Asked for him by name. Why call him out particularly, and not leave the second Grey Warden to Duncan's discretion, or send me alone?

Unimportant. He said it was unimportant. "Okay. Okay."

It wasn't true. It couldn't be. The Maker wouldn't do this to me, charge me with _this_ on top of everything else. And what of Alistair? If I were right, what would become of him? Loghain wanted the pair of us dead badly enough as it was.

But since he said it was unimportant, I would take him at his word. No matter how much he resembled—no matter Arl Eamon had raised him. Alistair's mother _had_ been from Redcliffe. And he had been the newest recruit to the Grey Wardens, after me. As a Warden, he was but six months my senior. If Cailan had wanted to keep me out of the battle, it stood to reason that he would want to protect Alistair as well. Cailan Theirin had been less of a king than his father, his queen often making up for his indifference in matters of state, but he had always been a kind man. At any rate, he would have wanted only the best with him against the darkspawn.

Not that all the best Wardens in Ferelden had done the king any good in the end, thanks to Loghain. I'd sworn that Mac Tir would answer for his crime before the Landsmeet, for the sake of justice as well as for Alistair.

I set aside my momentary madness, recovering myself. "Anyway, how did you end up at the Chantry?"

Alistair shrugged. "Arl Eamon eventually married a young woman from Orlais, which caused all sorts of problems between him and the king because it was so soon after the war. But he loved her. Anyhow, the new arlessa resented the rumors which pegged me as his bastard. They weren't true, but of course they existed. The arl didn't care, but she did. So off I was packed to the nearest monastery at age ten." He looked away. "Just as well. The arlessa made sure the castle wasn't a home to me by that point. She despised me."

The self-pitying note in his voice set me frowning. At times during our visits to Denerim, my mother had taken me and some of the sisters of the Chantry to visit the orphanages on mercy missions. I had seen the children there, dressed in rags, ribs visible through the rents in their clothing, begging for coppers, and falling to the pavement when the guards struck them for stealing. "You were probably luckier than most orphans."

Alistair agreed without protest. "I suppose you're right. I wasn't raised as the arl's son, though, if you're picturing that. I slept in hay out in the stables, not on silk sheets. I remember I had an amulet with Andraste's holy symbol on it," he recalled. "The only thing I had of my mother's. I was so furious at being sent away I tore it off and threw it at the wall, and it shattered." He shook his head. "Stupid, stupid thing to do. The arl came by the monastery a few times to see how I was, but I was stubborn. I hated it there and blamed him for everything . . . and eventually he just stopped coming."

I relented. Maybe Alistair had not starved growing up, but that did not diminish the suffering he had felt. The picture of neglect and abandonment he'd painted, in short, simple words, was still sharp enough. I could imagine it: relegated to the arl's stable like an animal, made to feel every moment he breathed that he did so only by the arl's charity.

Bastard: a living, walking, talking embarrassment, for many. Bastards heard their mothers called whores, even if they were products of rape. Even the poorest, meanest peasant spat upon a bastard, if that peasant was the legitimate son of his father. Alistair had heard enough of that, judging by his earlier defensiveness.

Still, it seemed that the arl had tossed him just enough kindness to firmly attach Alistair to the one person in the world to show him any at all, only to leave him open to the cruelty of his wife and finally give him to the Chantry when Alistair had become trial enough to the domestic peace at Castle Redcliffe. At least Eamon had seemed to feel guilty about his treatment of the boy, I thought, and well he should.

"You were young and angry. With good reason."

The self-pity had all turned to guilt now, and the nobility and courtesy that was as much a part of Alistair as playing the fool to mask it showed through again. "I may as well have been raised by dogs, the way I acted," he said. "But maybe all young bastards act like that, I don't know."

He spoke as though he thought it couldn't be helped, that he was inherently less than someone's legitimate son. The belief was common enough—that bastards were by their fatherless nature predisposed to evil and ill manners—but it had always made me sick. I had been sitting beside him, now I shifted to face him. "Hear me," I said, with some urgency. "It is no shame to be born a bastard. A shame men are unfaithful to their wives. A shame men abandon women to raise their children alone. But that is not your fault. Don't ever let anyone tell you it is, Alistair."

He smiled at me, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "An uncommon opinion from a noblewoman, Gwyn."

"Tch. Most nobles are idiots," I said, impatient. "You're no less than any other man, and when others insult you because of your birth, they degrade themselves, not you."

"I wonder how often you have been insulted, my lady," Alistair replied, gently challenging.

"You'd be surprised how much time nobles spend trying to tear one another down," I retorted. "At times, things could get very nasty when my family went to court at Denerim. But my father—my father always said that a person of honor doesn't need to tear others down to feel important, and insults are nothing but hot, empty air. They only ever carry the weight you give to them."

Alistair's gaze softened. "He sounds like he was a good man," he said quietly.

"He was." Thinking of him brought the tightness to my throat again, the sting to my eyes, and I closed them, trying to push back the tears. I took a breath, then opened my eyes again. "He would have liked you, too," I told Alistair. "My father never judged a man by his birth—only by the way he chose to live his life."

Alistair grinned. "'Your father would have liked me, _too_?' Are you trying to tell me something, my lady?"

I couldn't help grinning back, tears averted, but shoved him hard. "Don't get a big head or anything. My mother wouldn't have thought much of you. When Duncan came and started talking about recruiting me to the Wardens, she hated the idea worse than Father did. She never did like her little girl camping in the wilderness and learning to throw knives accurately from twenty paces. She would have far rather I settled down and married a nice young arling and got busy producing half a dozen beautiful, noble grandchildren."

Alistair raised an eyebrow. "So why didn't you?" he dared me.

I shrugged. The remains of our supper long cold, I grabbed my bowl and Alistair's and started walking to the stream to wash up. Alistair came with me. "Can you imagine _me_ as some arling's trophy wife?" I asked him.

Alistair chuckled, picturing it. "You would plague your poor husband's life out, my lady."

I answered seriously. "If he married me for my title, for an alliance, with no respect for my own capabilities and desires, you can be certain I would. I am the daughter of a teyrn, and my father raised me to be every bit as capable as my brother." I was quiet a moment, using gravel to scrape the coagulated stew out of the bottom of the bowls. "I never met the man who was prepared to take me on my terms, as a partner in every sense of the word. And I refused to settle for less—to be merely a decoration in some lord's house, a feather in his cap, a mother for his heirs."

I shrugged, and stilled, realizing that even that narrow future was now off limits to me. "Not that I have the option now," I said. I thought of Fergus, and wondered again whether he was alive. If he was not, if I was truly the last of the Couslands, it was more than likely our line would end with me. I loved my family. I loved our house. Forsaking my duty to them like this would be a shadow on my soul as dark as the taint for the rest of my days.

"Come now," Alistair urged me, sensing the dark turn my thoughts had taken. "It's not common for Grey Wardens to have families, but it isn't unheard of, either! I knew several Wardens that—"he stopped, and his face fell.

I looked at him. "I wonder how many children lost their fathers at Ostagar."

He bowed his head. "Too many."

"And how many brothers?" I stacked the now clean bowls beside the stream without taking my eyes from Alistair.

Alistair reached out and placed his hand on my shoulder. "I promise you, Gwyn: when the time comes, we will search for your brother."

"No, I know," I found myself replying. He had said it before, but this time I believed him. Somehow I knew that if we both survived the Blight, he would walk the length and breadth of Ferelden with me until we discovered what had become of Fergus. "That wasn't what I meant."

Lunacy or not, I couldn't let it go. Eamon, the king's orders at Ostagar, the evidence of his features, all of it pointed to the same conclusion.

But he said it was unimportant.

Alistair held my gaze with a quizzical expression. "Hey, cheer up, you," he said at last. Then, quick as a bear plucking a salmon from the stream, his hand darted into the water and splashed cold water at me.

I yelped, indignant, and immediately served him back in kind, and in the space of a moment, things had escalated into an out-and-out water battle. The dinnerware lay forgotten by the bank as the two of us dissolved into a frenzy, each trying our best to absolutely soak the other, squealing and laughing like two children. And when all was said and done, I thought, in the middle of all the darkspawn and our clouded, uncertain destiny, with all the weight of the past and the expectations for the future on our shoulders, that's what we were: two children, scarce twenty, doing our best not to mess everything up.

But when the fight had subsided, and the two of us stood on the bank, drenched, exhausted, laughing like lunatics at how ridiculous we'd been, how ridiculous we looked, what the others would say when we got back to camp—after all that, there came a moment when the laughter passed away and we were left staring at one another, silent. A breeze blew by, and I broke out in gooseflesh at the sudden chill. A drop of water rolled down my cheek, ran down my neck and over my collarbone, and into the collar of my linen shirt. I saw Alistair watch its progress, and amazingly, I let him.

I did not turn away or rebuke him, and so I saw his eyes darken, his cheeks flush. The tips of his ears turned as red as the cliffs of his former home, and I knew what he was thinking, because it was in my mind as well. How tall he was. The light of the fading sunset turned everything about him to gold.

Perhaps we were not such children, after all.

Now I was embarrassed, and I picked up the dinnerware and started back toward the camp. Leliana had covered the stewpot to preserve our breakfast for tomorrow. Sten had put the venison I had not used in the stew on a spit to roast. We would hang the cooked meat to dry afterward and eat it on the road.

Behind me, I heard Alistair following, and I heard him disappear into his tent, probably to change out of his wet things. I would have to follow suit soon, before the evening grew cold.

Unimportant. I'd have to cling to that.

Unimportant, who his father was. So long as Alistair maintained it was unimportant, I had no choice but to believe him, which was probably just as well. If it was unimportant, we were safe—or at least as safe as the only two Grey Wardens in Ferelden could ever be in a Blight. If it was unimportant, then Loghain Mac Tir only sought our blood as the last two witnesses to his treachery at Ostagar, and for no other reason. If it was unimportant, then no darker fate, no greater responsibility hung over Alistair than that I shared with him: to stop the Blight. And when we fought side by side, and I held his life in my hands, it was merely my friend and companion's life, the life of the only other Warden in Ferelden that I held. Surely burden enough. If I were responsible for—I had to put that aside.

He said it was unimportant.

* * *

 **A/N: I really do think Cousland would guess, especially my Gwyn. I imagine she's been to court a number of times, and though she hadn't met Cailan in person before Ostagar, she might have seen him from a distance, and maybe her family did meet Maric. And Alistair looks very much like Cailan, enough that I think telling her he was a bastard, raised by Maric's brother-in-law, when Cailan had kept him back by name from the battle, would really be enough. Leave a review if you've got something to say,**

 **LMS**


	4. Duty

iv.

Duty

ALISTAIR

As our party crested the last hill, the morning sun reflected off the red cliffs and waterfalls and back on Gwyn's face—the stubborn chin, that nose that was just a tad longer than was the fashion for gentle ladies. Her eyes, green or brown in other lights, looked like gold this morning.

When she cocked her eyebrow at me, I realized I'd been staring. I waved awkwardly, and she smiled, and my stomach twisted, like someone had tied it all up in knots.

I had to tell her. People knew me here. I couldn't stand it if she heard from anyone else. I'd been so careful not to lie to her; I didn't want to lie to her, but I knew if I kept silent any longer, it'd be the same thing as a lie. "Look, can we talk for a moment?" I asked. "I need to tell you something I, ah, should probably have told you earlier."

Gwyn slowed. Her shoulders drooped and her mouth turned down, like she already knew she wasn't going to like what I had to say, but she raised her hand, gesturing for the others to hold position and wait on the road. "Wynne, Sten, give us a moment, would you?" she called. She nodded at me to follow her. Right away she'd known I didn't want to talk to the others about this, just her, and she was stopping to allow it. Maker, she was fantastic. I probably didn't deserve that kind of consideration.

Once we'd passed beyond the point the others could hear—unless Sten had eldritch qunari hearing abilities, which I admitted might not be out of the question—Gwyn stopped. She folded her arms and bowed her head. She looked . . . resigned. Or like she was bracing herself. I suppose it was obvious I hadn't stopped her to give her good news. "What's on your mind?" she asked.

Now that it came to it, I was really nervous. It occurred to me that I'd never actually had to tell anyone before. Before today, everyone who had needed to know about me had always just . . . known. Actually admitting it was harder than I'd thought it would be. "I told you before how Arl Eamon raised me, right?" I began. "That my mother was a serving girl at the castle before he took me in?"

Her eyes darted up to meet mine, then away just as fast. I couldn't tell what she was thinking. "I remember," she said.

I swear, my stomach felt like a hard stone. Or a cold, slimy fish, flopping around down there. I don't know which, but it wasn't nice. I swallowed and gathered all my courage. "The reason he did that was because . . . well, because my father was King Maric. Which made Cailan my . . . half-brother, I suppose."

She let out a breath I hadn't realized she'd been holding, and as the air went out of her she sort of collapsed in on herself. Her face changed, and suddenly I thought she looked ten years older. "It's as I feared, then," she murmured.

 _That_ caught me completely by surprise. I really, actually yelped. I sounded like Cavall might have sounded as a puppy, that time she'd told me about when he'd run into a skunk. "What? You knew?"

She shifted, and wouldn't meet my eyes, and I realized she was just as uneasy about this conversation as I was! She was every bit as uncomfortable as me, not because she hadn't known about me, but because she _had_! Oh, I didn't like that. I didn't like that at all, but before I could scare myself too badly with all the implications of Gwyn's discomfort about my being Maric's bastard, she'd answered. "I didn't know, per se," she said carefully. "It's risky, claiming a bastard for a king without confirmation from another source, even in one's head. But I suspected, yes."

I stared at her. "You suspected." Maker, I sounded like an idiot, repeating her like that, but it was baffling. The biggest secret of my life, and she'd just _guessed_! Was it really that obvious, or did Gwyn just know everything? "May I ask how?" I finally managed.

She blinked, and frowned. She looked up at me, searching my face, and for a second I saw something like pity in her eyes. "You never met Cailan in person, did you?"

It wasn't really a question, the way she asked it. Now I blinked. "Uh . . . I never had that pleasure, no. I think he knew about me, but it's a bit awkward, isn't it? Acknowledging a bastard half-brother." But the way she said it made it fairly clear how she'd known. I looked down at my hands—looked at Gwyn. "Is it really that obvious?"

She gave me this sad little smile. "It's quite a distinctive resemblance," she confirmed, nodding. "Uncanny, really. It was nagging at me from the moment we met—that you reminded me of someone, but I didn't realize it was the king until you told me you were a bastard, raised by the arl of Redcliffe. Eamon was Maric's brother-in-law, and well known as a confidant of His Majesty. Once I knew that, I wondered how I could have missed it. I wasn't sure, exactly. I didn't want to assume . . . but it didn't seem like a ridiculous assumption."

Strange, to hear her talk about kings and arls like well-known friends and neighbors. Made me remember who I was talking to. In her battle leathers, she was just my friend, my fellow Grey Warden, but Gwyn had been a lady, hadn't she? Gwyn Cousland. The Couslands—they were almost royalty. Oldest family in Ferelden. I wondered how many times she'd been to Denerim. She'd certainly been on speaking terms with Cailan at Ostagar, anyway. They'd talked—twice! When she'd first come to Ostagar, then later—he'd actually demanded an audience. Duncan had been present both times, of course, but the king had definitely wanted to talk to Gwyn, too.

She'd seen him, and the resemblance between us was so strong that all she'd needed was to hear I was a bastard before she'd known whose son I was, and whose brother. "I look like him?" I couldn't help asking. "Like Cailan, I mean. Really?" I traced the lines of the face I saw every morning when I pulled out the small, cheap mirror I had in my kit to shave. I'd never imagined someone could just _look_ at me and tell. That if Maric hadn't given me anything else, he'd given me his face—a face I shared with my half-brother. Thinking of it made them more real somehow.

Gwyn seemed to know now, how I regretted I'd never known them, because her hand closed around my elbow in gentle reassurance. "Very much," she murmured.

I shook my head. "What do you know?" I managed, laughing a little at my sudden sadness. "I never thought I might look like him," I explained. "Never really thought of King Cailan as my brother. It never really meant anything to me." Maric's bastard. It had always been more of a concept than a reality to me somehow. The reason I slept in a stable and the children at Redcliffe jeered. The reason Arl Eamon had felt it was his duty to raise me. Why becoming a Templar, a Grey Warden, had been the highest honors I could imagine for someone like me. Sometimes I'd imagined what it would have been like to be the queen's son, too, to live in a palace instead of a stable—of course I had. Idle fancies.

Gwyn listened, face sympathetic. "I was inconvenient, you see," I told her. "Just a possible threat to his rule. It's why they kept me secret. Why I've never really talked about it to anyone, why I didn't tell you." I hesitated, feeling again how wrong I'd been to keep this from her. She'd been nothing but a friend and companion to me, my partner against the Blight since the day we'd been saved from the slaughter at Ostagar. I tried to justify my silence. Of course it was no good. There was no excuse. "Everyone who knew either resented me for it, or they coddled me . . . even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it."

She frowned, and her hand tightened on my arm reflexively. The sudden squeeze hurt, and I stopped talking, looking at her expectantly. She looked worried, apprehensive again. "Duncan didn't keep you out of the fighting," she corrected me. "Remember? It was the king who ordered you back from the battle at Ostagar. That was the other thing that made me think maybe . . . it was like your appearance: it didn't really register until after you told me how the arl had raised you; it was just something that had been bothering me. But afterward, it made me almost certain."

I met her earnest, hazel gaze, and all of a sudden I knew why she was looking so worried, why she'd been as uncomfortable hearing I was Maric's son as I'd been telling her, and it was like the world had turned upside down and all the stars had shifted. All at once, I was hard pressed not to be physically sick.

I'd been so angry that day—I had felt like a child, ordered back from the fight, I had hardly heard Duncan's explanation. Now it was as if he'd only just said it, and his words echoed in my ears with a new, terrible significance. _This is by the king's direct order, Alistair._

I knew what Gwyn was getting at. I'd been deaf that day, and now I knew what Duncan had meant. But worse, worst of all, was the horrible suspicion that both of them were right, and at Ostagar, the _king of Ferelden_ himself had ordered me back, not because I was the son of my father, but because I was _his_ half-brother, and it hadn't been about coddling me at all.

Cailan didn't have an heir.

I staggered back from Gwyn's pressing gaze, her hand, which all at once felt like red-hot tongs. "No," I breathed.

But Gwyn refused to let it go. "I wondered that day why the king asked for you specifically, by name. I understood why he wanted Grey Wardens to see to the beacon, of course. Even why he wanted me to go. I'd just completed the Joining that day, after all. But why not send me alone? Or with any other random Grey Warden? Why send you specifically? But if the king knew you were his half-brother, the last of the Theirin line—"

Andraste, I was suffocating. I couldn't breathe. "Impossible," I insisted, trying not to hear how my voice had gone tight, how my skin had broken out in gooseflesh, how sure I was she was right. "I have no illusions about my status, Gwyn. It's always been made very clear that I'm a commoner and now a Grey Warden and in no way in line for the throne."

I didn't want this. I did not want this. Leave aside the question of bastardry for a moment, who in their right mind would put _me_ in charge of anything, let alone a great country? I was more than halfway convinced Ferelden was doomed just counting on me and Gwyn to do our jobs as Grey Wardens.

I took another step back, then another. I started to turn, to head back to the safety of the others.

Gwyn stopped me with a single word. "Alistair."

Just that. Just my name, and she'd stopped me just like she had pierced a tendon with one of her enchanted ice arrows. I groaned, but turned around to face her, jaw tight.

At least she didn't look happy about telling me I was going to have to be king. I could give her that much. She looked about as tortured as I felt. She swallowed, eyes bright. "You 'were a possible threat to Cailan's rule,'" she said quietly, using my own words against me, but at least having the decency to look like she hated herself for it. "You can't be that and be a commoner, too. It doesn't work like that."

Curse it. Why did she have to make sense? I tried one more time. "No, if there's an heir to be found, it's probably Arl Eamon himself," I said. "He's Cailan's uncle, and more importantly, very popular with the people. Maybe Cailan was trying to keep me safe at Ostagar," I conceded. "From everything I've heard of him, he was a good man, but let's not read more into this than there is. I'm a bastard. Bastards can't inherit."

She sighed, but I knew already it wasn't any good. "They're not supposed to inherit," Gwyn replied. "They usually don't. If Cailan had had a child, or even named Arl Eamon his successor in the event of his death—Andraste's teeth, if he'd named _Anora_ his successor, the question probably wouldn't even come up for discussion. But he died without an heir, and you're the last of the bloodline.

"Eamon's claim is by marriage," Gwyn continued. "No stronger than Anora or Loghain's, though I'll grant you Eamon is a better option than they are. No, Alistair. You've been honest with me at last. I'll do the same for you. You have the strongest, surest claim to the throne of Ferelden, bastard or no, and even if you don't want it—"

"I don't!"

She hissed in a breath, and I realized I'd almost shouted at her. Immediately remorseful, I took a step toward her, but she held up a shaking hand. She was close to tears, I saw. Trembling. Nearly as terrified as I was, which somehow made this even scarier. She'd been a lady before. Almost royalty. She knew what this meant. She met my eyes, as serious as I'd ever seen her. " _Even if you don't want it,_ from now on, there will always be those that wish you to sit there regardless, and will act to seat you there, for power or tradition or what have you. It's why I hoped for your sake I was wrong about this. It will get out, Alistair. Things like this always do, and you are the heir to the throne. The only legitimate one we've got.

"I'm not asking you to do anything about it right now," she said. "We've the Blight to contend with. But think about it. There will come a time when you'll either have to make a decision about this, or have the decision made for you. In any event, I promise you this: you will have my support, Alistair, and my protection. A Cousland does her duty."

That pulled me up short again. That _was_ the other side of the Cousland thing, wasn't it? Oldest family in Ferelden. Princes and princesses, and knights as far back as anyone remembered. King and country above all else. As I looked down at her lifted chin and determined gaze, my heart sank. There it was. So much for battle leathers and facing the Blight together, equals. Now everything was out in the open, I'd always be the future king of Ferelden to Gwyn. Or a possible future king of Ferelden, anyway. Void take it, I didn't want her to be my knight! I'd hoped—it didn't matter what I'd wanted. My father's blood would follow me if I fled to the Anderfels.

"Duty," I repeated, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. "That's why I've never talked about this before with anyone that didn't already know, you know. They always treat me differently. The bastard prince, instead of just . . . Alistair. My father's blood has always cast a shadow over everything I do."

Gwyn sighed, but didn't deny it. "And always will," she answered. "You are a prince, Alistair. You can't avoid it. I can't avoid it. But it doesn't have to mean that I am any less your friend, or that I am protecting you any less for your own sake than that of who your father and brother were. On the contrary, our friendship will make me that much more the eager to do my duty."

It really might have been something of a joke, the notion of her _protecting_ me. In close quarters, I actually was quite a bit better than Gwyn was. At range, though—well, at range she _was_ deadly. Half the enemy went down to her poisoned and enchanted arrows before they ever got to me, usually. And she was just so serious about it.

I groaned. "If you must." I knew she was only looking out for me. And at least she was being honest with me. At any rate, she'd suspected for over a fortnight, and she hadn't let me off the chores at camp or kept me back from danger yet. She respected I knew how to take care of myself. If anyone had to treat me like a potential heir to the throne, at least it was Gwyn. "Can we just . . . not think about it now, though?" I pleaded, desperate to salvage any kind of normalcy I could here. "Between us, and in front of the others, can we just go back to pretending I'm some . . . nobody who was just too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens?"

Gwyn raised an eyebrow at me. "Nobody's a nobody," she replied quietly. "Even before I guessed, you were never such to me, Alistair. I would not wish to share this duty of stopping the Blight with any other. I would not trust it to any other. I feel I am the lucky one, to have you with me."

I gazed back at her, frankly flabbergasted. Here I was, a bastard boy that spouted foolish nonsense about dogs and _cheese_ at her when I couldn't think of what else to say, and she thought _she_ was the lucky one here. Aside from being far kinder than I had any right to expect, and practically a princess besides, she was just . . . amazing. Strong. Brave. Scarily clever.

And beautiful.

I halfway raised my hand. To do what, I've no idea. Touch her face? Smooth her hair? I lost my courage before I'd closed the distance. "I . . . feel very unworthy of that," I managed. And she smiled at me, laced her fingers through my hand, squeezed once, and let go.

She started back toward Wynne and Sten, and I followed her. Maker, I didn't know the first thing about being king. All my life they'd told me I never would be. I certainly didn't want to be. But . . . if I had someone like Gwyn Cousland on my side, that had to count for something, didn't it?

As we rejoined the others, Wynne and Sten looked very curious about what we had been talking about by the cliffs all on our own, and I sighed. I'd have to tell them, too. I'd have to tell all of them.

I looked over at Gwyn. Her face was grim as we started down the path toward the town, and she met my eyes with every bit as much trepidation as I felt. She was right. It would get out. Cailan was dead, and we couldn't leave Loghain in charge, and here I was—Maric's bastard son, the last Theirin alive.

The one that was never supposed to be king.

I swallowed. Later. For now, I didn't have to be king. Gwyn would be watching me now, _protecting_ me, for Andraste's sake, but for now, the only thing my duty told me to do was walk down the hill to Redcliffe. Thank the Maker for small mercies anyway.


	5. Shayna and Calenhad

v.

Shayna and Calenhad

LELIANA

Ever since I had told our companions that I had once been a bard—though _not_ all that my former career had entailed—it had not been uncommon for them to ask me for a song or a tale when we made camp of an evening. Stories and song helped to while away the hours. They made the fire glow the brighter, drew our company closer together, and made the darkspawn seem further away.

Even the most avid performer grows weary of the show at times, though, so one night, shortly after we had left Redcliffe to head for Denerim to seek Genetivi and the Urn of Sacred Ashes, I confess I grew impatient. When Alistair and Zevran took up the call for me to raise my voice, I laughed at them. "Am I the only one that has a tale to tell?" I asked. "Surely not! I am certain Morrigan could tell us tales from the Wilds. Or Shale? A comic tale of the villagers you observed for so long, hmm? Zevran, what of Antiva? I am certain you have many anecdotes of life in Antiva City, yes?"

Morrigan scowled at once, the antisocial thing. "I very much doubt I have anything to tell that our company would wish to hear," she said. I sighed as she stalked away to her tent at the very edge of the camp once more. Sometimes I wondered what she might have been if she hadn't been raised with Flemeth, all alone in the Wilds. She was a beautiful, intelligent, young woman, but the Wilds had made her cold, too.

There was more hope for Zevran. As hard as I believed his life might have been, he was not yet lost to trust, to friendship, or I thought, to love. He looked thoughtful now, smiling a bit. "You would hear a tale of the prostitutes and politicians in my Antiva City?" he asked. "Perhaps I might give it a go, if that is truly what you wish."

But his eyes were guarded, and I knew he did not truly wish to speak. Gwyn, watching him carefully, spoke up. "I'll go," she said. She poked the fire with a stick, and bright sparks flew up into the starry night.

Zevran relaxed, and I hid a smile. Always our leader was looking out for all of us, careful not to push any man or woman further than they wished to go. Zevran had indeed come a long way, and would perhaps come further still, but for all he had no shame about his past, the things he had done to survive—still he did not like to speak of it.

On the other hand, we were all eager to hear from Gwyn. Everyone in the camp sat up straighter, their ears tilted to catch her words. Sandal moved closer to the fire. Sten's head turned. Alistair rubbed his hands together in anticipation, half mockery, half earnest, I judged. It was often that way with him. "Ooh, our fearless leader will play the minstrel tonight. This should be good."

"Yes, let us hear what it has to say," Shale agreed, with unusual eagerness for the golem.

Gwyn was quiet a moment, letting the tension build before she began. She was a quick study, I'd found. Of course, while the moment of silence before the tale helped to set the mood, it also gave the bard a moment to breathe, to calm her wild nerves. She was nervous, I could tell. Paler than usual in the firelight.

When she began, she began formally, in the middle of the action. "It is well known, of course, that Calenhad the Great was the first to unite Ferelden under one banner," she said. I couldn't help but smile, and I resituated myself, getting comfortable to enjoy her story. Calenhad. How classic! An excellent choice. "The third son of a mere merchant, Calenhad rose to greatness and became Ferelden's first king by the strength of his arm, but more, by the strength of his honor. It was Calenhad's honor that made him his allies, among them the fierce and brave Lady Shayna of the lowlands. Like many others, Shayna swore her loyalty to Calenhad for love of his goodness, and she vowed to follow his banner and fight at his side for as long as they both should live. 'Andraste as my witness,' said she, 'If by my life or death I can serve you, my king, so let it be.'"

She paused, her rich voice still throbbing with the passion of the Lady Shayna's oath. She turned still paler, and her hands gripped her knees—in surprise, I thought, or fear. Gwyn was a natural storyteller, I could tell. She had heard me these many nights, and learned well, and she had captured everyone in the camp at the very opening of her tale. Even Cavall had dropped his head to his paws, eyes riveted upon his mistress. For all that, Gwyn had not been trained as a bard. A bard could tell any story at all. All other storytellers eventually found they told their own, and it was plain Gwyn had discovered this already, in one way or another.

But she was brave, so she continued. "With their piety and belief in Andraste and the Chantry, Calenhad and his lady wife—Mairyn, daughter of Myrddin—won over the allegiance of many in Ferelden who before had been ambivalent. But it was with the strength of Lady Shayna that Calenhad faced all his foes. For years they battled side by side, and there was great love and trust between them. At last, only Simeon, Teyrn of Denerim, remained to stand against Calenhad, but his armies could blacken the horizon with their might. All would have been lost, but for the charisma and brilliance of Calenhad, who at the last persuaded both the Circle of Magi and the dwarven Ash Warriors to lend him aid, and at the Battle of White Valley, Calenhad met Simeon's forces to unite Ferelden.

"The battle was long and bloody. The spells of the mages lit the sky for miles around, and the valley rang with the clash of iron and steel and the cries of dying men. In the heat of combat, Calenhad engaged with Teyrn Simeon, but he slipped in the blood and mud upon the field of battle. Simeon raised his greatsword above his head to strike down the young claimant to the throne, but Lady Shayna, fighting nearby, saw her lord in danger. With a cry, Shayna threw her body between Simeon and Calenhad, and Simeon's sword rent her armor and bit deep into her side, inflicting a terrible wound. Simeon shouted his triumph to the skies, and so he did not see Shayna bringing her shining, silver dagger up, even as she fell, right through the gap between his breastplate and armguard, and all the way to his heart. Simeon fell beside Shayna on that battlefield, but he did not rise."

It was admirable, awesome, how the words poured out of her like a tempest, a flood! Something outside of herself drew them out into the open air. For those that were not trained to resist, it was like that sometimes, when a tale lay close to the teller's heart. This tale of Shayna and Calenhad lay very close to Gwyn's heart tonight. I could hear her in Shayna's passion, almost see her there, on that muddied battlefield, throwing her body between her sovereign and the blade, bringing up the shining, silver dagger. Like the passionate wording of Shayna's oath, the dagger was a detail the old stories never included; it was specific to Gwyn's story here tonight. It was always the details that made the tale.

Really, she was nearly good enough to make a girl jealous. All at once it occurred to me that this was perhaps not as new to her as I'd thought. She was a teyrn's daughter. Many bards and minstrels would have come to her home when she was a child, and it would not have been untraditional for them to ask for her aid in telling the learning tales after supper, as the first daughter of the house and a compliment to her father. Seeing her white face and shining eyes, I wondered if she was thinking of her father's house now, if she had told this tale before.

"Calenhad was crowned king at last," she said. "With Mairyn his queen, and the people of Ferelden rejoiced. But even as Calenhad spread the ways of the Chantry through the land, established trade with other lands, and began a bright new age in Ferelden, he tarried long by Lady Shayna's bedside, personally tending to her wound and helping his most loyal friend to regain her strength.

"When Shayna had healed, however, Calenhad was obliged to return fully to the duties of peace. What was his companion in war to do? At Calenhad's desire, Shayna lingered at court, but it pierced her soul to watch as he was drawn ever further away from her, to see to his supplicants, to establish trade agreements with other states, to fulfill his duties to wife and arls, while she languished.

"For Shayna secretly loved her young king," Gwyn whispered. Now she lowered her voice, as if confiding a secret. A masterful stroke. Less masterful was the way she clasped her hands in front of her, tighter than a clamshell. She was trembling now, and it was necessary, to keep her voice strong. Suddenly I knew how this story was her own, and it chilled me to my very soul, how apt was her choice. "And how could she not?" Gwyn continued.

"True, his beauty was such as might take any woman's breath away, with his long, well-formed limbs, fair hair, and open smile, but to Shayna, Calenhad's goodness seemed to shine like the sun. His quick wit and sharp tongue had chased away her worries and brought laughter to her darkest days. They had passed together through innumerable dangers, borne each other's burdens. Calenhad confided his fears in Shayna, and he had held her through her long recovery as she raged at her weakness and wept for all she had lost. He had kept her strong. They had fought and killed and bled together. What intimacy, what devotion could compare to this?"

The camp sat spellbound—all but me. No longer jealous in the least, my heart ached as I looked over at a soul in agony. Gwyn's passion gave the old legend the poignancy to which her audience was responding, but I knew how much this was costing her. She was tearing her heart open for us all to see, speaking words I wondered if she would ever have the courage to say aloud outside of the story. I could hardly breathe, nor did I dare look at the one she truly meant her tale to reach, to see if he heard. I both hoped and feared he did. _I love you, I love you,_ she cried with every sentence. But this was the story of Shayna and Calenhad, so she was also saying _we can never be together._

Gwyn's voice grew dark and forbidding as she neared the climax of her story. "One fateful day, a witch, cloaked in shadows and secrecy, did come to the Lady Shayna. The witch claimed to know of Shayna's secret desire, and offered to her a love potion that would grant it to her, if only for one day. How did the witch know of Shayna's love? In truth, she was none other than Simeon's sister, who had seen from afar at the Battle of White Valley how eagerly Shayna had thrown herself under Simeon's blade to save her king, and from the action divined the feelings behind it. Now the sister of Simeon sought her vengeance, but Shayna, all unaware, and drowning in her sorrow and her yearning for Calenhad, gave into temptation, and took the potion.

"Shayna offered the potion to Calenhad that very night. Of course the king had no reason to suspect his dearest friend would offer him anything harmful, and he gladly accepted the cup from Shayna's hand, and fell under her spell. But that night, Shayna and Calenhad were discovered by the Queen Mairyn, and betrayed and brokenhearted, Mairyn fled Denerim to return to her father's side to tell Myrddin of the king's infidelity. Furious, Myrddin made known the king's faithlessness to his wife to all Ferelden, and he threatened to revoke his support of Calenhad and plunge the nation into war again.

"Shayna was filled with blackest remorse. Well she knew that had it not been for the witch's potion, her dearest friend would never have thought to betray his beloved wife. She could not suffer the stain to Calenhad's honor, when the fault was hers, and hers alone. When she heard the end to which her actions had led, Shayna entered the court and knelt before the king's feet. In front of all the people, she confessed what she had done. She proclaimed Calenhad's blamelessness, proclaimed that it was only due to her use of forbidden magic that they had done what they had done. 'Let my life be forfeit,' said she, 'I have betrayed my king and so dishonored my oath.'

"But Calenhad stepped forth and raised the Lady Shayna to her feet. He forgave her, and refused to have her executed. This enraged Myrddin and the other nobles in the land still more. Myrddin martialed the arls, determined to kill Shayna for her treachery, and Calenhad for forgiving it, at the expense of Myrddin's daughter and Calenhad's own wife, the queen. It was not long before Ferelden stood on the brink of civil war once more.

"Though Calenhad had ordered her to stay back, Shayna disobeyed his orders. In a last effort to renew the peace, she went alone and unarmed to Mairyn to plead for peace. But she was discovered by Myrddin. In vain were her pleas with Mairyn's furious father. Myrddin slew Shayna on her knees.

"When Calenhad learned of Shayna's murder, his sorrow and anger were great indeed. He felt he could not let this slaying of his greatest friend and ally go unanswered, despite what she had done, and so with great reluctance, he challenged his father-in-law to a duel of honor. In this duel, Myrddin was slain, and the outrage of the arls forced Calenhad to abdicate in favor of Mairyn's unborn son. This son eventually became King Weylan I, but Calenhad disappeared, never to be heard from again."

Gwyn bowed her head at last, and fell silent. The silence stretched long, as the tale hung over the party, as all good tales did at their end. Then she stood, breaking the spell. "Excuse me." She walked away, into the wilderness outside the camp.

"A powerful tale," Wynne remarked. "And masterfully told. And yet it troubles me."

"I never understood that story," Alistair muttered. Violently, he threw a log onto the fire, cracking another and making the fire flare in indignation, and I suspected Alistair had understood more of Gwyn's tale than he would reveal to the rest of us. He tried very hard to make us all think that he was foolish. Morrigan believed it, but she was wrong. I suspected that as a child, Alistair had learned to use the mask of the fool to turn away the wrath of others, to make them underestimate and overlook him. In the future, it might be a powerful tool, for in truth he was quite clever.

"Shayna had been with Calenhad all along," he said. "She was his closest companion. In the end, he chose her over his wife, even after she admitted what she'd done. If he loved her so much, why didn't he just marry Shayna instead of Mairyn and avoid all the trouble in the first place?"

"If things were that simple, my friend, many men would still be living today, but we would have far fewer stories," Zevran said.

Morrigan sniffed. "As I have heard it, Mairyn was the daughter of Calenhad's closest ally. An obvious choice, if he wished to secure his power. Who was this Shayna? When did he meet her? It could have been after he had already wed Mairyn."

Alistair grimaced in distaste, but I nodded at our apostate. "It is quite possible. The legend does not say. But it is the way of things, I am afraid. The hero must wed the lady, she of incomparable wisdom and beauty, with lovely, white hands unscarred by any blade, face unchapped by wind and rain and care. Often it is that the warrior woman, she who presumed to fight and kill beside the men, must die before the tale is complete. Otherwise there is no order, or so the tales would have us believe. It is thus in the tale of Aveline from Orlais."

"Well I don't like it," Alistair said. "It's not fair. It's not right."

None of us mentioned Alistair's heritage. Though he had told us all shortly after revealing himself to Gwyn, he did not like to speak of it. But Gwyn's tale was appropriate in many ways, for the last descendant of Calenhad sat among us tonight, and the knowledge of it hung over the camp. In many ways, Alistair did resemble his legendary ancestor, I thought. Oh, not as he had become—not the king victorious, the head of a nation newly formed—but as he must have been, a young warrior, gazing over a dark and broken land, where clan fought clan and all his battles lay before him. Last of the Theirin bloodline, last of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, Alistair had a long and arduous path to walk, and many burdens to bear. He tried to deny it, but deep down, he knew what his fate would be, and in the end, he would not shrink from his duty. But looking at him, I knew he was angry. Angry he could not or would not escape his fate, yes, and angrier still that his companion on the battlefield, the companion of his heart, had told him this night that she might not be there forever to share it.

There was no comfort that any of us could offer him. I simply gave him a sad smile. "Nor is life. And what are tales for, but to offer us a mirror in which to see ourselves? Gwyn did a wonderful job. I could not have done a better myself. But if it is a comfort to you, I do not believe she liked this tale any more than you, Alistair."

"It _is_ all upset now, isn't it?" Shale observed. "Why did it pick this story, if another would have pleased it better?"

"Ah, but what other tale could a good Ferelden noblewoman have told to a camp of foreigners but the tale of the first king of Ferelden?" I asked, smiling around at Morrigan, the Feddics, Sten, Shale, and Zevran. "Though most—most would have chosen to tell how Calenhad rose to power and first allied with Myrddin, the father of Mairyn, his queen. That is a happier story. But perhaps Gwyn could not help but tell this tale. It is like that sometimes."

"What do you mean she couldn't help it?" Bodahn Feddic wanted to know. "Of course she could help what story she told."

Sten folded his arms. "There was more in the Warden's tale than entertainment." I regarded him, and found that it did not surprise me that the qunari commander had understood Gwyn's tale as well. There was far more to Sten than his strength and sword.

"Indeed," I agreed. "There always is, of course. Some hidden meaning, some learning the audience is meant to take away from the tale. Sometimes this meaning is for all. Sometimes, just for one. Sometimes, it is for the storyteller themselves, a way for them to speak the words they could not speak otherwise. The tale a storyteller chooses to tell, the details they add to it or leave out, say just as much as the tale itself."

I had been speaking idly, discussing the craft, but when Morrigan pursed her lips, and Wynne frowned in sudden worry, I realized I had been foolish. In the end, Gwyn had hidden her secret within her tale—it was there for those who had the wisdom to hear it, but she had chosen not to say it openly. It was not for me to reveal what my friend had chosen to leave unspoken, and I bowed my head, and stood. "But you are not minstrels. No doubt you are most uninterested in the art of storytelling. I think I shall retire. Zevran, you are on first watch tonight, yes?" The elf nodded. "Wake me when I must relieve you."

I repaired back to my tent, but as I left, I noticed that sometime in the last few moments, Alistair had left. He had gone after her.

I sighed. They were not lovers yet, I knew. A former Templar and a noblewoman of irreproachable character, passion was a thing they had both been taught to shun and repress. And they were both very young. But if I had learned one thing tonight, it was that both Gwyn and Alistair were too far gone down that path to draw back now. Gwyn hesitated, knew it was ill-advised to love in a land wracked by civil war in the middle of a Blight, but she had not been able to stop her confession tonight. Alistair was more certain of her—and more stubborn. Ill-advised or no, he would not give her up easily. Sooner or later they would come together.

I lay back on my couch. I did not know if their love was wise, if it would be a joyous thing that would give them both strength and courage and lead to their triumph over the dangers we faced, or if—like the tale of Shayna and Calenhad—it would end in folly and tragedy, a brave, noble woman warrior destroyed, and a nation whose king could no longer lead.

But I could see the scene playing out now in the woods, a different version of the tale we all knew so well, and as I thought it I memorized it. Another day, in another party, this would be a tale to bring the strongest man to tears.

 _The night before he was to be wed to Mairyn, daughter of Myrddin, Calenhad left Myrddin's house. Unarmed and unarmored, he made his way through the wood like a man in a trance, caring naught for the low branches that scraped his face and snagged his fine shirt, a gift for his wedding trip._

 _Then found he Shayna at the boundary-line, the moon-glow all silver on her armor. Her hand on her longbow, face out to the dark, keeping watch, for the enemies of Calenhad might be gathering to destroy him, even now on the eve of his wedding._

 _Then Calenhad said to Shayna, "It is I." And he took her in his arms in the moonlight, took her in his arms in the dark. He smoothed her glossy, brown hair with his battle-scarred hand; he kissed her stern, warrior's face. And Shayna did not resist her king, but clung to him, and wept._

 _Calenhad, all anguish, kissed each pearly tear away, and in the quiet, he knelt at her armored feet. He put his arms 'round her battered greaves and clasped her knees. Thus did the king plead with the Lady Shayna. "Myrddin is my friend," said he. "My most trusted and powerful ally. Without his aid, we cannot hope to unite the land. But what do I know of his daughter? Shayna, you are my companion and closest confidant. You are my strong right arm. You are my shield, my sword, and the breath in my lungs. How can I betray you and wed another? Tell me what to do. Your king is your humble servant."_

Yes, that was how it would go, I thought. But how would Shayna answer?

Ah—well. That depended on them.

* * *

ALISTAIR

I found Gwyn about three quarters of a mile from camp and a mile off the road. It was a pretty place to brood, as far as such places went. The river had curved into a small wood, and the rocks had dammed part of it naturally to make a clear, shallow pool that reflected the stars and the moon overhead.

Gwyn sat on a boulder by the pool, her hand loosely on her longbow by her side. She was prepared to protect herself from any bandits or darkspawn that attacked, or kill any hare or deer that crossed the path—more food for the many mouths in our party that always needed it. She was always ready for any situation, never defenseless. It was one of the things I admired most about her.

She heard me before she saw me. Of course she did. A cat couldn't sneak up on Gwyn Cousland in a blizzard, but she didn't turn around. Just said, not too loud, "Come to check on me?"

"Is that all right?" I asked her, hesitating.

Her face twisted sort of ironically, but she nodded. "I'm fine, Alistair. Just a little embarrassed, I guess. I got a little carried away. I used to tell stories back home all the time. Father loved to hear me. Back there I just . . . went with it, and before I knew it, I was saying way more than I meant to say in front of the entire camp. Or, you know, ever." She shrugged.

"Leliana said something, right before I came to find you," I said. "'The tale a storyteller chooses to tell, the details they add to it or leave out, say just as much as the tale itself.' I don't think I'd fully realized—just known I hated the story—but when she said that, I knew. And I had to come find you."

Gwyn snorted softly. "Did you?"

"The others haven't—Morrigan, Sten, the Feddics—but I've grown up in Ferelden all my life just like you, Gwyn. I've heard the story of Shayna and Calenhad. I know how it's usually told. The vow, the dagger—all those things you said about how Shayna felt about Calenhad." I was losing my courage now, and I felt my ears turning red and dropped my gaze. "Those were extras. You added them in."

She was quiet a moment. "I did," she admitted. "Is _that_ all right?"

"I think Leliana knew what you were doing. Sten, too," I told her.

Gwyn looked down at her feet. "I was fairly obvious. I didn't realize until I added in Shayna's oath what I'd begun to say. Then I figured—I'd started. I might as well finish."

That she'd begun it there, with the oath of service, chilled me to the bone. "' _Andraste as my witness,_ '" I echoed.

" _'If by my life or death I can serve you, my king, so let it be_ ,'" Gwyn finished. Now she turned around, and met my eyes.

Total, unconditional commitment, and she hadn't been speaking for Shayna in her story. Or if she had been, she certainly wasn't now. At Redcliffe I had underestimated the weight of the promise she had made me when I had confirmed her suspicions about my heritage, so now she was making it again, in no uncertain terms. She _was my_ knight. Leading our efforts against the Blight now only because I'd asked her to do it, and after the Blight, assuming we survived, whether or not someone put me up for king of Ferelden, I was stuck being hers.

I reached up for her hand, and she gave it to me. "Really, Gwyn?" I asked, as I helped her down from her boulder.

"With a song in my heart and a smile on my lips," she answered at once, unashamed.

It was incredible, amazing—felt like I was flying—but her faith in me was terrifying, too. I couldn't imagine what I had possibly done to earn it, didn't want to think about what it would feel like when I let her down. "How long?"

"Alistair, you've been my king since the moment you confirmed what I suspected, that you are Maric's son and Cailan's brother," she told me. But before I panicked, she continued, "And you will be as much my king continuing in the Wardens, or even in exile—whatever you decide—as you would be in the palace in Denerim. Not because of your blood, but because of who you are. The goodness and loyalty and iron sense of duty I saw in you from the first."

Sometimes looking at her was like my heart had swollen, like it had had an allergic reaction and was suddenly too big for my chest. Sometimes, looking at her, I could hardly breathe. I still had her hand. Words weren't enough, so I raised her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. "I am far from a Calenhad, my brave Lady Shayna," I told her. "I don't deserve such loyalty."

"As ever, you are blind to your own worth, and thus twice more worthy," she replied. "My loyalty is my own, to withhold or to give, as is my heart. Both—"she paused, and though she smiled, her eyes were bleak and wary, "are yours, Alistair."

There it went again. A big throb in my chest. I reached out and held her chin, stroking her cheek with my finger. "Then why so sad, my lady? You know I care about you more than anyone."

Gently, she pushed my hand away from her. "Alistair," she whispered. "Calenhad doesn't get to be with Shayna. Not forever. He has to marry Mairyn. Once I could have been Mairyn for you, too. Perhaps. But Howe took that away when he killed my family. Grey Wardens can't hold a title. And you've told me enough about what we sacrifice with the Joining that I've begun to understand why."

The contradiction was obvious, and I brightened, distracted for a moment. "But isn't it the same for me, then? Wouldn't that mean a Grey Warden couldn't be king?"

She sighed. "It's different for you," she protested weakly. "We've talked about this. You're the best option we have, Alistair, and you'll be spectacular. You will."

I didn't like it, but I accepted that. One thing was certain: she couldn't have things both ways. So one way or another, I was going to win here. "Then if I can be a prince and a Grey Warden," I said, though I couldn't keep from grimacing as I said it, "I don't see why you can't still be a teyrn's daughter, Gwyn Cousland. Now. Let's have no more nonsense." I kissed her roundly on the forehead, kissed her hands once more. This time she didn't pull away. She smiled.

"As you wish, my king."

I shot her my dirtiest, most wounded look. Her smile widened. I could see it in her eyes, though, that she wasn't completely convinced. Neither was I, if I was truly honest with myself.

I wasn't convinced that she was right, and that I was the best heir to the throne, that someone would eventually try to make me king, no matter that I was just Maric's bastard, who was never supposed to rule. No matter that I didn't want it. The Landsmeet would have to be insane to think that was ever a good idea. Then again, I wouldn't wager too much on the sanity of the kingdom just now, either. The chaos caused by what had happened at Ostagar, combined with the Blight, made the situation more desperate every day. So as much as I didn't like it, I wasn't convinced Gwyn was wrong, either. Especially as she had this annoying habit of being right about _everything_.

If she was right about me becoming king, I should be right about her being able to stay a teyrn's daughter. If she was wrong, it wouldn't matter. But if someone did try to make me king, but the logic that made it possible to set the king's Grey Warden bastard on the throne didn't also keep a teyrn's Grey Warden legitimate daughter noble—it really could be Calenhad and Shayna all over again.

I took her hand, and we started walking back to camp in comfortable silence.

Another common-born Theirin king, another warrior woman who fought at his side. And no doubt there would be plenty of Mairyns. But I didn't want to rewrite that story. Gwyn had been with me from the beginning. Gwyn would be with me at the end. I knew she'd never betray me, and she'd never have to see me abandon her—the woman who'd walked with me through every step of the Blight. She'd never have to _languish_ , watching me with someone else.

 _Languish._ As if Gwyn would ever be soppy enough to _languish_ over anyone or anything! The very word was incompatible with everything I knew of her. Definitely not her style. And Maker strike me down if I _ever_ let her do anything like throwing herself under an attacking teyrn's blade for me or hurling herself upon the mercies of an angry, vengeful arl.

 _By my life or death_ , indeed!

* * *

 **A/N: Enjoy the Arthurian parallels. I certainly do. Even named the dog for them! It's what interested me in a fandom I'd probably otherwise leave well enough alone (Certainly not going to play the other two games in this series! Thedas is just too depressing!) Leave a review if you've got something to say.**

 **Regards,**

 **LMS**


	6. Intentions

vi.

Intentions

GWYN

Bliss. Pure culinary bliss. I sank down on a log next to Wynne, plate in hand. "I worship at your feet," I informed her. "These pancakes are a gift from the Maker Himself. Please, please teach me your wisdom. Or Alistair. You could teach him, too." Zevran's cooking was no treat, but almost everyone else could hold their own when it was their turn to feed the party. Alistair and I, however, were both dismal, and it had been our offerings our companions had been forced to choke down the last few nights. And Wynne was by far the best. I took another bite of the flat cake she had put together with two brace of rabbit, some herbs Morrigan had found, and some grain we had bought back in Redcliffe, and wondered if she hadn't used her magic to make it so delicious.

Wynne laughed at me. "You learn a thing or two when you've lived as long as I have," she said. "You are getting better, you know. The fish the other day was _almost_ edible."

I made a face. "I didn't think it was that bad, actually. Until I tasted this."

Wynne relented. "There now," she said. "It's hardly your fault. Of course you couldn't have been expected to learn to cook before you became a Gray Warden. You're having to learn as you go along. You might have some promise." She glanced across camp at Alistair. "Some people, on the other hand, _never_ learn."

I swallowed another bite. "You'd cut him to the quick. He tries so hard, too."

"And the last thing we'd want to do is hurt his feelings," Wynne said. I paused. She had just been teasing before, but this time her wit had a bite of significance. I looked up at her, and she raised a meaningful brow. "I was very interested in that story you told the other night," she continued. "Shayna and Calenhad. A traditional choice, perhaps, but very passionately rendered."

I laid down my fork. "Speak your piece," I said tersely.

She didn't hold back. "You're quite taken with each other, aren't you?"

Now I wished I hadn't sat down. Standing, it would have been far easier to avoid this conversation. One joke, and I could leave and sup with one of my other companions. Zevran or Leliana, perhaps. Now that I had chosen to sit beside Wynne, standing would be an obvious retreat. "And?"

Curses, I was blushing! Andraste's teeth, where had my words gone? My words, that could cut down a man three feet in five seconds, that could move grizzled old warriors to tears, that could convince hardened mercenaries to spend their fortunes buying candies for orphans, should the mood strike me. I'd been reduced to a sullen, speechless schoolgirl.

 _It's the manner. She just reminds me so much of Gran, before she died. Right down to the disapproving glance that makes me feel shorter than a dwarf._

Wynne shook her head at my discourtesy. "Even if you hadn't declared your love in story and song in front of us all, dear, it's hard not to notice the doe-eyed looks he gives you, especially when he thinks no one's watching. It's almost too sweet for my tastes, and I'm an old lady who should be making lace hearts and fuzzy blankets with animal motifs."

I tried to stave off the lecture I felt sure was coming with a joke. "Well, you did make that sweater for Sten. But you're hardly the average old lady."

"No, I won't be making socks with pom-poms for you any time soon, but that's hardly my point."

"No," I sighed. I set my supper aside and sat up straight. "You disapprove?"

"I've noticed your blossoming relationship," Wynne answered, "And I wanted to ask you where you thought it was going. Alistair is a fine lad, skilled in battle, but inexperienced when it comes to affairs of the heart. I would hate to see him get hurt."

"Never." I felt my face grow hot, embarrassed by how fiercely the word had flown from my lips. But I did not back down. "I would _never_ ," I told Wynne again.

The elder mage sighed. She held out her hands to me, and I gave her one of mine with some reluctance. She took it. "Oh, my girl, I know you would never intentionally hurt him, but there is great potential for tragedy here, for one or both of you. You know this as well as I. That, too, was in your tale.

"You are both Grey Wardens, and he is the son of a king. You have responsibilities which supersede your personal desires."

I snatched my hand back, angry. "I know that. Don't you think I know that?" I snapped. I glared at the fire, and listed them, one by one: all our duties, everything that stood between Alistair and me. "The Blight first. Then Alistair. Not us; _him_. His safety, his future. Either he'll have to be king or we'll have to get him out of Ferelden. In both cases, it'll be my duty to protect him. Then there's me—my responsibilities to my house, my family. Alistair's right that if he still has the responsibilities of his bloodline, whatever the Wardens say, so do I. I have to find out if my brother is alive. I have to see Howe to justice for what he's done. And then—then I'll have to make a decision about the future of my family. If there can even be one."

Wynne's face had become graver and graver as I made this little speech. I at least gave her credit that she took no pleasure in hearing me acknowledge just how right she was, but she didn't back down, either. "You do see my point, then?" she pressed instead.

"Of course I see your point!" I snarled. "There's a dozen, a hundred things in the way. I know that! I do!" I wrapped my arms around my torso and squeezed hard, feeling so empty and cold it ached. "Me and Alistair—I don't know what's going on, Wynne. I don't know what it is that we're doing. It's not like we can court as if I was still a lady living at Castle Cousland. I know that. It's just—I like him," I whispered. Laughed. " _Like_. It's hardly adequate."

Wynne shook her head. "Love is ultimately selfish," she said. "It demands that one be devoted to a single person, who may fully occupy one's mind and heart, to the exclusion of all else. A Grey Warden cannot afford to be selfish. You may be forced to make a choice between saving your love and saving everyone else, and then what would you do?"

Her question turned me to ice, but I had my answer ready. I had known my answer to this question since Redcliffe. "You heard my story," I told her flatly. "I'm planning out the strategy here. I'm organizing the army. So my first priority is to ensure we are never in the position where it's Alistair or everyone else. Not because I love him, though I could. I might. Because I love my country. It's basic chess. If you lose the king, you've lost the game entire. So if things ever look that desperate—queen's sacrifice." I shrugged, as if it were not my own life I was talking about sacrificing. I picked my plate back up, took a bite, and tried not to look at Wynne, her eyes wide with fear and pity, for all I had to have just said almost exactly what she had wanted to hear.

"You would do that? Sacrifice your life, to save his?"

I swallowed, and then I met her gaze. "If I had to? In a second. I've got no illusions, Wynne. I know Alistair's life is worth more than mine."

"Alistair might disagree with you."

I took another bite and didn't answer. He could disagree all he liked, and I knew she was right. Alistair would be very angry if he heard me say what I had just said. It didn't change the facts.

Wynne peered at me. "You haven't told him you will do this."

I finished my meal. For a moment, I was silent, listening to the gentle, comforting crackle of the campfire. "I hope it won't be necessary, Wynne. But a Cousland does her duty, so since you asked, if it ever was—yes. My life for his, and for all the lives his will preserve and improve."

"Dear Maker, you really would cut your heart out and lay it at his feet if he asked, wouldn't you?" Wynne's awestruck observation wasn't really a question. "Before he asked. The moment you thought it was needed."

I grimaced. It was like being naked in a blizzard, laying everything in me out for her to see and judge like this. Left me just as cold, like a wind had flayed me to the bone.

Wynne's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "You're so . . . young," she murmured. "I was wrong," she said suddenly. "My dear girl, you are far from selfish, but don't you see how you will break his heart? Do you think Alistair could be indifferent if you made such a sacrifice for him? It would truly be to write the tale of Shayna and Calenhad all over again. You told us all: After Shayna was slain, Calenhad could no longer _be_ king. A man like Alistair does not love casually, and the first love is always the hardest."

The words were another icy dagger in me. There was a sudden pain in my fingers, and I looked down to see I was gripping the edge of my plate so tightly that I had cut off the circulation. "First?" I repeated.

Wynne blinked. Then she smiled with such sadness, such pity that I wanted to throw something at her. Hard. "Yes. For Alistair as well. It's really quite obvious. Did you not know?"

I shook my head slowly. A tightness was constricting my chest, and my breaths came shallow. "I didn't," I replied. "I thought—"I stood. "Thank you for your advice," I told her. "I—I'll consider what you've said." I held out a hand for Wynne's plate and went to do the washing. I hoped it would clear my head.

* * *

Washing my dish and Wynne's did not clear my head. Washing the dishes of all our company and the griddle and knives as well, alone, refusing the aid of both Zevran and Leliana, did not clear my head.

Wynne was right.

What had I been about with Alistair? He was the only living son of King Maric, which meant that in the long term, there could be no future for us. Set aside the fact that my duty to Maric's son, Cailan's brother, would always have to come before our friendship, our love. If that was not enough to kill whatever was between us—and with Alistair, that might be all it would take—I had my own duty to consider as well. Alistair Theirin could never father heirs for the Cousland line. If Fergus was dead, or never remarried, staying with Alistair, whether he became king or went into exile, would be to destroy the Cousland house with my own hand. Even Alistair's bastard children would be Theirins before all else. He himself was proof enough of that.

So what in Andraste's name had I been doing?

. . .

I had hoped that he knew.

I'd allowed him to comfort me when I was weak—in Lothering and elsewhere. The rose he had given me had been a clear declaration of his intentions to court me. I had accepted it. I'd given him my hand, let him kiss it, kiss me on the forehead. Not once but many times. I had given him my lips. _Not_ many times, but more than once, so I could not write it off as a mistake, a solitary moment of weakness, and even now, I did not regret it. He had kissed me, and I had kissed him back and been glad of it.

I knew what my mother would have said, if she'd lived to see. She would have said my behavior with Alistair was only appropriate to a lady with her betrothed, and that was hardly me and Alistair. My brother and father had not been so conservative. _Let her break a few hearts while she can, Eleanor,_ he'd laughed at my mother when she'd lectured once. _Keep the young men on their toes!_ Fergus had always teased me about my suitors, whether I'd been sneaking kisses behind the stables again. Mostly because he'd known I never had.

They would not judge me for what I had done with Alistair, but I knew they would not approve of my fumbling around blind like this, without a thought to the future, either. I could hear my father's voice now, gently reproving, _It isn't fair, pup. To the lad or to you._

Fergus would be more blunt. _Bed him if you want, Gwyn. Just make sure it is what you want. Don't give yourself away for nothing._

All my life, I'd been my mother's daughter. I hadn't been disposed to grant my favors to my suitors, who were unprepared to accept me on my own terms, unprepared even to compromise. As for love—I had long been aware that in my world, love was the brass ring, and lovemaking just a line in a contract. Things were different for ordinary citizens, for soldiers, so when I'd become a Grey Warden, when I'd begun to realize how it would be between me and Alistair, I had looked for him to take the lead and show me. I knew I might have to die for him one day, if the Blight didn't kill me first. I had hoped he would teach me how to make the most of the time, in case fate determined we wouldn't have much of it. But Wynne's words had changed everything.

If she was right, if this was a first love for him as well—I didn't know if I _could_ bed him. It was one thing to love him and sacrifice my life to save his. Sacrificing _his_ love with my life was quite another. If all this time I had been wrong, and Alistair had been so patient, so courteous, not only out of respect, or some misplaced sense of social inequality, but because each touch, each moment, was as new and sacred for him as it was for me—it was by no means certain that Alistair was prepared to make the same sacrifices I was. And I didn't want him to.

Calenhad had spent months after Shayna was wounded, tending her, and when she'd been slain, he had thrown away the kingdom he had worked so hard to obtain in a _moment_ , for her love.

I prayed fervently to the Maker that I was not rewriting that tragic tale, but if Wynne's suspicions were correct, then I might have inadvertently become as important as Alistair in securing the future of Ferelden. If this was the case, I had to know now, so I could form my plans accordingly.

Piece by piece, I returned the dinnerware to the chest where we stored it for travel during the day. The Feddics carried it on the road in their wagon. By now I trusted Bodahn would not steal it. I trusted that he would share our camp at night, or he would tell us when he intended to break away from our company. I understood why he had not as of yet—we had established a mutually beneficial trading relationship. We provided the Feddics with protection on the road—passage to all corners of Ferelden, and thus a reliable, steady access to an influx of goods, not only the extra supplies we picked up in our adventures, but also the goods Bodahn was able to trade for in cities and villages all across the land. He was turning quite a profit these days, and in return, he paid us well for the supplies we procured for him, discounted access to his own changing stock and Sandal's enchanting abilities, and lent us the services of his mules and cart in moving our camp every day.

I closed the chest, stood, and looked over at Alistair. He raised an eyebrow at me, and I beckoned for him to follow me away from the camp and into the woods.

"Am I in trouble?" he joked—though I noticed he had waited until we were out of earshot of the others. "You and Wynne looked like you were having a very serious conversation over supper earlier. I caught her looking at me once or twice."

I hesitated, unsure how to begin. Best just to get it over with, I decided. "Not in trouble, but she did say something that made me think. Alistair, you were raised in the Chantry. Have you never—"I broke off, blushing. I couldn't do it.

Alistair started to grin. "Never what? Had a good pair of shoes?" he prodded.

I dropped my gaze, folded my arms, and kicked at the dirt, wishing very much now I'd never brought it up. "You know what I mean!"

"I'm not sure I do. Have I never . . . seen a basilisk? Ate jellied ham? Have I never licked a lamppost in winter?" Curse him, he was enjoying this!

"Now you're making fun of me," I mumbled.

Alistair laughed at me, but denied it. "Make fun of you, dear lady? Perish the thought! Well, tell me: Have you ever _licked a lamppost in winter_?"

His tone made the euphemism clear. So he did know what I meant. I shifted. "What do you think?" I answered, irritated at how foolish I felt, how like a child. " _No_. I've never . . . _licked a lamppost in winter."_

Alistair began walking again. I followed. "Good," he said. "I hear it's quite painful. I remember one of the younger initiates did it on a dare, once, and there was pointing and laughing . . . oh, the humanity." He swallowed, licked his lips, and looked sideways at me. "I, myself, have also never done _it_ ," he admitted at last. "That. Not that I haven't thought about it, of course, but . . ."

I really should have realized, I thought. "You never had the opportunity," I sighed. "My mother would have killed me," I explained, for my part.

"Nor is living in the Chantry exactly a life for rambunctious boys," Alistair laughed, a little nervous now. "They taught me to be a gentleman, especially in the presence of beautiful women such as yourself. That's not so bad, is it?"

He thought I would judge him, or worse, laugh. So I shook my head. "Not unless it's bad my mother taught me to be a lady," I replied.

He paused again and looked at me. The corner of his mouth quirked up, and his eyes softened. "No," he told me. "It's not bad at all."

I blushed again. "So. Beautiful, is it?"

"Of course you're beautiful, Gwyn, and you know it," Alistair accused me. "You're ravishing, resourceful, and all those other things you'd probably hurt me for not saying."

I laughed, but demurred. "Never," I said. It was a promise. "Never." I reached out, caught his hand, and kissed it gently. He caught my waist with his other arm, pulled me in, and kissed my forehead in response.

"Nor would I ever hurt you, my lady."

A bright spot in all the darkness, he called me. He'd been brightening my life from the moment I'd reluctantly admired his wit coming back at the hostile mage at Ostagar, from the day he'd stood beside me and given me courage to face my first darkspawn. But standing with his arms around me, my head spinning, and the lovely warmth curling in my stomach that was beginning to become familiar, to look into his eyes, and see there the very mirror of what I felt for him frightened and saddened me. I buried my head in his shoulder. "Maker, this complicates things," I murmured. Alistair pulled back, searching my face. I hastened to reassure him. "Not that you're—you know. I have no idea what I'm doing, either. That it matters. It's more important now. That's the complicated bit."

Alistair frowned, puzzled, and I could tell, a bit disapproving. "You'd rather it wasn't?" he asked. "I suppose we could find a bush somewhere, if you really just wanted to get things over with."

"No, that's not what I—"I broke off, realizing a flat denial wouldn't make things much better. "That is, of course I'm willing to share a bed with you at _some_ point, if you want."

Alistair laughed, but there was an edge to his laughter. "Oh, I want," he said under his breath. He kissed my forehead again, then released me carefully. His voice was hoarse, and his eyes were dark with desire, and I shivered in anticipation, but the worry rose, too. I could hear how much he meant it, but even now, he was courteous, patient. Because to him, it mattered when and how we came together. Because I mattered. Oh, for a world where I could be as happy about that as I wanted to be, instead of feeling vaguely sick.

"It would just be easier if it didn't matter so much, to both of us," I whispered. "Alistair, there's a very good chance one or both of us will die in this Blight, or in whatever happens next. It's harder, to give yourself to someone like that, knowing . . . knowing you might not get to keep them . . . knowing how much they'll hurt if _they_ can't keep _you_. I could make that choice for myself, but to make it for you?" I shrugged.

"You don't think we'll both survive this? That we'll stay together?"

I squirmed. "We can't be sure of that. We'll do our best to make sure we both get out alive, of course, but there can be no guarantees."

Alistair was unimpressed. "And after, if we do?" he challenged me.

I sighed, and started walking again, well aware I was running away. "I will always be your friend, Alistair. You will always have my support, no matter what. I promised you that. But we don't know what's going to happen."

He caught up with me easily. "You mean if I have to be king," he said bluntly.

"Or if Fergus is dead or any number of other things comes to pass," I protested. "Alistair, we can't just think about us, what you and I might want. We have responsibilities, both of us. If you can't accept that someday, I may have to decide between being your knight or your lover, and that if that happens, I will do my duty, then maybe it's best this never goes any further."

"We can plan for that," Alistair said, waving a hand. "You forget, Gwyn, you're not just protecting me. I'm protecting you, too. A lot of people are protecting you. Actually, in an out-and-out fight I do rather well, you know. This sword isn't just for show."

I smiled. "At close range and face-to-face, I daresay on the average you fare quite a bit better than I do. Far be it from me to deny it. It's my job to stop our enemies from getting that close, however."

"And mine to keep them from you, if they somehow survive your storm of arrows, your assassins and your mages and what have you. I'm not afraid we'll die, Gwyn," Alistair returned. "We work well together. We protect one another, for the most part. There are some cuts and bruises here and there, but we can handle those. I have faith in us. You should, too. I don't ever think you'll have to _throw yourself beneath Simeon's blade_ to save my life. The other does concern me," he went on. "You mentioned your brother. What if the choice is between being _Gwyn Cousland_ and being my lover?" He made a face. "Maker, that's strange to say. My _lover_."

I hesitated. Slowed. My stomach twisted. "You're very perceptive tonight."

I was stalling, and he knew it. "I have my moments. Don't tell anyone. I do have a reputation to uphold. Gwyn?" he probed, watching me carefully for my reaction.

People underestimated Alistair, I thought, not for the first time. He hid behind his jokes and clownishness—a tactic I believed he had first developed under Eamon's care so as never to appear to be more than what they wished him to be, then perfected in the Chantry in the hopes they would underestimate him and hesitate to place him under the Templar's yoke, afraid he would not be able to handle the responsibility. He _was_ young, and his different upbringing meant that he was sometimes ignorant of things I had known all my life, but he was no fool. Those that did think so and treat him thus, though, would only ever prove their own foolishness. In fact, that was one of my strongest reasons for believing that Morrigan had told the truth when she claimed she had little experience of the world outside of the Wilds.

I found I was twisting my hands. "I don't know," I replied finally. "Your lover or your knight—that's easy. My duty's clear. But the other? I just . . . don't know."

Alistair stepped in front of me, forcing me to stop. He made me meet his eyes. They were bright, almost glowing in the growing gloom. "So you would consider it?" he asked, incredulous. "Me, over your duty to your family? The future of the Couslands? You'd really do that?"

I felt sick again, but I lifted my chin. "I don't know. Maybe," I said. "You—it wasn't part of the plan. None of this was. But things are different now. I'm not just Gwyn Cousland anymore. I'm a Grey Warden. Your friend. In _whatever_ this is with us. Maybe I'm stupid, a silly girl willing to throw everything away for her first lo—"I broke off and looked down. We hadn't said it yet, and I wasn't going to. That would be to make it real, and so much more dangerous.

"Gwyn," that was all he said. Just my name, but with so much gratitude, so much tenderness I could hardly stand it. He skimmed his hand up and over my cheek, softly, so softly, like the breath of the first spring wind. I closed my eyes and tilted my head up to meet his lips. They were warm and sure against mine, and moved with much more confidence than they had in our first efforts at this a few weeks ago. That first kiss had touched my heart with its sweetness, but _this_ left my knees trembling as if they'd turned to jelly. The pleasant warmth in my belly ignited into a sudden liquid fire that stole the breath from my lungs. This sweetness pierced my soul, and it was so akin to pain that I cried aloud and clutched Alistair's collar—whether to pull him closer or just to keep myself standing, I did not know.

Alistair rested his forehead against mine, running his thumb now over my cheek, my nose, my lips—swollen and hungry. "Maybe you are a silly girl," he told me. "But at least you can have confidence in knowing I'm just as silly and besotted as you are, right?"

"Am I? Am I really _besotted_?" I asked. Somehow, I knew this should bother me. But I didn't care.

Alistair leaned down and kissed me again, taking his time. "I'm afraid you are," he informed me. "I'm _really_ sorry about that, by the way, except you know I'm not, actually. Not at all."

I wrapped my arms around his waist and rested my cheek against his chest. "You're a bad man."

"Guilty as charged," Alistair laughed. His arms moved down now, too, until his hands rested on my hips, warm and present, but undemanding. "When it happens for us, Gwyn, and it will—that is, I hope it will," he rushed to amend.

I shook my head. "Oh, it will," I assured him.

His ears turned red as they always did when he was embarrassed. "When it happens, I want you to know that. That this is new territory for me, too. Hm. In more ways than one." He pulled back, but I laced my arm through his as they turned to head back toward the camp.

"We'll chart it together," I promised.


	7. Yours

vii.

Yours

GWYN

"All right. I guess I really don't know how to ask you this."

I put away the last of the dried bear from the attack at the old battlefield last week. Feeding eight bodies every day—eleven with the Feddics and the Circle liaison—was no joke. It was a good thing Shale didn't eat. I would have to go out with Leliana, Sten, and Morrigan soon to search for more food. See if we could forage some mushrooms, herbs, tree bark. Find some fish in the nearby lake. Take a deer, maybe, a hare or a wild goose. Winter was coming. Feeding everyone was just going to get harder and harder. I decided we should probably head to Orzammar next, after we had resolved the situation at Redcliffe one way or another. The dwarves would have more food readily available for purchase.

I tucked some hair behind my ear and stood to face Alistair. "Ask me what?"

Alistair opened his mouth and closed it again. He seemed flushed in the firelight, I noticed. His hands came up to rake through his hair, and he paced in a little circle. "Oh, how do I say this," he muttered. "You'd think it would be easier, but every time I'm around you, I feel as if my head's about to explode. I—I can't think straight."

I stared at him, starting to feel concerned. "Alistair, you can ask me anything. You know that," I told him.

"Here's the thing," he explained. "Being near you makes me crazy, but if you ask me what I want, you're there, every time. I can't imagine being without you. Not ever." He seemed to give up working his way up to it then, and confessed, "I don't know how to say this another way. I want to spend the night with you. Here, in the camp. Maybe this is too fast, I don't know, but . . . I know what I feel."

Oh. _Oh_. I looked around, all at once very aware that we were _in_ camp. Who was still up? Nights came too soon now for me to tell who the figures were; they were all standing too far from the fire, in the shadows near their respective tents. Some seemed to have bedded down, at least. I tried to remember who had first watch. Sten?

My face flamed, and I twisted my hands together. "Alistair, are you sure?"

"I wanted to wait for the perfect time, the perfect place," Alistair explained. "But when will it ever be perfect? If things were, we wouldn't even have met. We sort of . . . stumbled into one another, and despite this being the least perfect time, I still found myself falling for you in between all the fighting and everything else. I really don't want to wait anymore. I've—I've never done this before."

"Neither have I!" I reminded him. I brought my hands up to my cheeks, trying to hide my blush. The walls of our tents were so thin. When the lanterns were on inside, everyone could see the shadows of the people within. Sound would carry. But what embarrassed me most was how little I cared.

"Is this too fast?" Alistair wanted to know. "I shouldn't have asked, should I?"

I shook my head. "It's fine. More than fine," I promised him. "It's just—Alistair, a hundred things could happen." But I was already doing the arithmetic in my head. Would tonight be safe? Could we lie together without fear of making a child I would have to carry in the middle of a Blight—Maker, did it matter? I just bet Morrigan knew a few spells or potions.

I laughed nervously. Andraste's teeth, my mother would have killed me! To take a man to bed like this, not my husband or betrothed or anyone that was ever likely to be. Maric's bastard, the probable heir to the throne, when the murders of Oren and Oriana had taken us far past the place where I could make a good queen, even discounting the taint in my blood that meant I'd be lucky to see fifty. Yet my heart raced, pounding an erratic tattoo against my ribs. "Is this really what you want?" I asked one more time.

Alistair nodded. "I want it to be with you." Now that he'd got it out at last, he was much more certain. "While we have the chance. In case . . ."

Once again, he felt as I. This night, whatever lay between us, was all the more precious _because_ it might not last. If a darkspawn's blade or the Archdemon's breath took one or both of us, we would go into the void with no regrets. If we survived but the crown or my duty to my family tore us apart instead, we could face the years ahead knowing that in the time we had spent together we had given all the love we could. Given everything.

I smiled. "Don't say it," I told him. "There's no need." I reached out for both his hands and bought them to my lips. "Let us waste no more time, then," I suggested. "Take this night, and as many as it pleases the Maker to grant us." Alistair turned his hands in mine to cup my face. He stepped close, kissed me once, softly.

"Thank you," he murmured against my lips.

"This is yours," I told him quietly. "Whatever happens, this will always be yours, and so will a part of me." I smiled again, and laced my fingers through Alistair's to lead him to my tent.

Later, I lay in Alistair's arms, looking into the eyes of my lover. I was exhausted, but I did not want to sleep. Sore, but so full of warmth and contentment I had no words.

Alistair broke the silence. "You know, according to all the sisters at the monastery, I should have been struck by lightning by now." He caressed my arms, leaned forward, and kissed my cheek.

I laughed against his mouth. "It could still happen, you know."

"True, but if it happens afterward it's hardly an effective deterrent, is it?" Alistair punctuated his question with a tickle to my sides. I squealed and slapped at him, before leaning back into him again and closing my eyes.

"Bring on the lightning bolts, I say," I murmured. "I can die happy."

"The other members of our little group are going to talk, you know," Alistair informed me. "They do that." I looked lazily over at the tent flap. We'd kept the lantern on, neither of us so practiced at this that we didn't need to see what we were doing, or so accustomed to one another's bodies that we could stand not to see. What we had been doing had probably been perfectly visible to everyone else in the camp. We had taken care to be courteous to our friends, but we hadn't been completely silent, either.

I didn't give a damn. "If it doesn't bother you, it doesn't bother me. I'm not ashamed of us, Alistair."

I could feel his smile against my cheek, hear it in the warmth of his voice. He kissed me. "So. What happens now?"

Ah, there it was. The bitterness alongside our joy. I wondered if I would ever recognize us without that edge. "For all we feel, for all we've done here, nothing has changed," I answered, and it pierced my soul to have to say so. "There's still the Blight. You're still Maric's son. So many things could happen to you, to me. To us. But . . . if you wish, we can face those things side by side. Together . . . in _all_ things."

"That's what I want," Alistair assured me. "I love you, you know. Did I tell you that? Well, it won't kill you to hear it again, will it?"

I feigned a frown. "As a matter of fact you hadn't told me that," I answered with mock sternness. Then I laughed and kissed his nose. "But I knew," I promised. "And do you know what?" I kissed his lips again, taking my time. "I love you, too," I breathed.


	8. An Understanding

viii.

An Understanding

EAMON

I could not read young Cousland. I hazarded a glance at Teagan. My brother had some familiarity with the lady; they had often visited Denerim at the same time in her youth. Teagan had also fought beside her in the village when I had been lost to my illness. Teagan had great respect for Gwyn Cousland. I recalled that once or twice, in the last three years or so, he had even said a word or two regarding a personal admiration for the girl. Nothing had come of it then; she'd been little more than a child, not eighteen years old, and Teagan had not been confident enough to approach her noble parents about his esteem for their young daughter.

She had come of age in battle and hardship, and Gwyn Cousland was fully formed now. Taller than many women, lean and strong and healthy, her dark hair was well brushed and glossy for all its boyish length, and she had remarkable, flashing hazel eyes. In truth she was quite striking, but she was undeniably dangerous as well.

Gwyn Cousland was a powerful woman. She would be a crucial voice in the Landsmeet. If her brother was dead, she was the last legitimate claimant to the teyrnir of Highever. She was also one of the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden, one of only two that could defeat the Archdemon and end the Blight. Gwyn Cousland's voice could sway all Ferelden one direction or another.

She had saved my life. She had saved my family and my holding to ally with me against Loghain Mac Tir's treachery and end the Blight.

And yet I could not shake the feeling that, for all that, the lady was still no friend to me.

She stood opposite me in my hall, listening as I told her my plan to put Alistair forward as king at the Landsmeet. She asked many questions, but she would not say what she thought of the scheme. Still, some things at least I could read from her posture and position. Her impassive face, eyes hard as stone, the way she stood, legs shoulder width apart and arms folded. From the start she had placed herself front and center, and between Alistair and myself.

She was not saying no. But she was certainly saying what I had already begun to suspect: ' _This will not go through without me.'_

For all her youth—for surely she was no older than Alistair, and perhaps younger—Gwyn Cousland was an indispensable ally, and she knew it. She was also a potentially formidable opponent. She had seen far more of Alistair of late than I had, and traveling companions and comrades-at-arms sometimes formed strong bonds, not even considering the hardships they were facing together as the last to Grey Wardens that remained to fight the Blight. Her influence with Alistair at this point was almost certainly greater than my own. Not for the first time, I regretted the breach that had grown up between Alistair and myself. It had never been my intention to hurt the lad, yet still I knew I had done so, and badly, when I sent him away.

When our council ended, Teagan and Alistair left the hall. Alistair was not pleased with our course, though if he was anything like I remembered, he would come around in time.

Cousland remained. For a moment, she stood before me, arms yet folded in that combative stance. I had offered her a chance to wash and a change of clothes before our audience. She had accepted the former, but declined the latter, refusing to don a gown in place of her battle leathers. She was a commander preparing for war, and even here in my house she was yet on the battlefield, fully armed with a longbow I wondered if many men would be able to draw, and a dagger and an heirloom longsword in an odd double sheath on her hip. There was something to respect in her preparedness, I thought, and in the way she still held herself like Bryce's daughter, a true princess.

"I think we should talk, you and I," she said. Her voice was quiet, but her tone carried though the hall nonetheless. "You understand the sacrifice Alistair will be making, pursuing the course you plan? His life will never be his own again."

I gestured to a nearby table and chairs, where I sometimes took a meal on days I held audience for the villagers. Cousland followed me over, and we sat down together. "I had hoped to avoid this," I told her. "But with Cailan dead, and no other heir—"I shook my head. "This is not what I wanted for him, my lady. Know that. Of course," I pointed out, "his life as a Grey Warden could not be said to truly be his own, either."

"Granted," the lady allowed. "But you resigned your right to a desire as to what Alistair's fate would be when you allowed your wife's insecurities to drive you to give him to the Chantry, ser. You are not a man who thinks with his heart. You cut him deeply that day, and now you do so again."

I regarded her. It was true that I had resigned my rights to Alistair when I had given him to the Chantry; I had not wanted him to be one of the Wardens—they never lived to be old—or a lyrium-addicted Templar any more than I had wanted the burden of princedom for the goodhearted, fair, poor son Maric had left in my charge. But the only way Cousland could know Alistair's history was if Alistair himself had told her. I began to understand her. Alistair looked to have forgiven me at last, Maker be praised. Cousland still bore his grudge. Looking at her now, she reminded me of her own warlike mabari hound in her loyalty to my former charge, hackles raised and teeth bared in his defense.

I sighed. It was good the lad had found someone to take his part. His treatment at my hands had been less than ideal. "Isolde—Isolde was wrong in her treatment of Alistair," I conceded. "No matter what I told her, she believed him to be my son, and of course I could not tell her the truth. Not then."

Cousland leveled a contemptuous glance at me, piercing right through my excuse to my shame. "You could have kept the arlessa in hand," she replied. "Even if Alistair were your son, you would have sired him before you met her, so she had no cause to suspect infidelity; and from what Alistair tells me, you had made it clear he would get no inheritance from you, so neither was he a threat to any of her heirs. You could have persuaded her to show kindness. Instead your inaction made you complicit in her cruelty, and you justified it when you abandoned the son King Maric had left in your charge in concession to her insecurity. He loved you!"

In a way it was almost worse, the reasoned coldness of her argument, the way she systematically cut to the weakness I had shown all those years ago and revealed it for what it had been. She did not raise her voice, but fury ran beneath it like the lightning on an enchanted sword, and her eyes were blazing. I spread my hands. "I love her," I answered. "I care for the boy, but at the time I saw no other option."

Cousland shook her head. "He still loves you, Maker help him," she muttered. "I am not so kind. But in the interest of the future, I can endeavor to leave the past in the past."

So the past was not what she had wanted to discuss with me. That was interesting, because if she intended to discuss something else, but had been unable to resist expressing her contempt for my actions in the past—I could not deny that it chafed, especially given her youth—well. Cousland claimed I did not think with my heart. I wondered how much she thought with hers. "Alistair is very dear to you," I risked observing.

Immediately I knew my suspicions were correct. "He is my king, ser," she retorted angrily, rigid and pale. "My king and my companion. We stand together against the Blight, and together we have braved many dangers. But that he is my king—that is what I wish to discuss now. You do not believe he is capable." She did not frame her charge as a question.

It was not then, that she doubted our course. Cousland doubted me. I acknowledged reluctantly that if she sometimes followed her heart, Gwyn Cousland's head clearly was not idle. Again she cut straight through to truths I would rather not admit. "It was always assumed Cailan would leave an heir," I murmured. "Alistair was not raised to be king. In truth, once we became aware he had learned of his parentage, we did our best to impress on him that he could never be king. In all usual cases, a bastard could not expect to inherit, of course. But this is not a usual case, and now he is the only one that can take the throne."

It was not strictly true, and immediately she said so. Quite coolly she replied, "The only Theirin, perhaps. The dynasty could end. Anora could continue to hold the throne. Loghain's claim is strong—he is a hero. Without him Orlais would still occupy Ferelden. You or your brother could make a play for the throne; you are related by marriage. In theory, I or my brother—if he yet lives—could also put in a claim. Our line is older than the Theirins, and the Couslands would find support with many of the people." I tensed. Was that it? Did Cousland seek the throne? She was not wrong—but she continued. "In fact, Ferelden could dissolve into quite a pretty little civil war right about now, trying to determine who has the best claim, queen or traitor, king's uncle or king's bastard or powerful noble house. We need Alistair because his claim has the best chance to oppose Anora's and win in the Landsmeet, settling the question of leadership without a civil war that will leave us unable to oppose the darkspawn."

It was exactly the conclusion I myself had come to, but hearing her restate my own reasoning with such cold pragmatism angered me somehow. "Would you leave Loghain and Anora in charge of the nation?" I demanded.

Cousland replied quite calmly. "I would not. Loghain is mad with paranoia, and though Anora might have led Cailan by the nose for the past five years, she clearly lacks the strength to oppose her father now."

I frowned. It was true enough. Though it did not please me to hear Gwyn characterize Cailan this way, everyone knew my late nephew had not been the king his father was. "Loghain is quite different from Cailan," I said.

Cousland had clearly been waiting for just such an opening. She had deftly forced me to confront my own reservations about our plan; now she made her own case for it. "So is Alistair," she stressed, leaning forward so I would not miss a single word. "Hear me, Arl Eamon. I support Alistair for the throne. But if you think to use me as your weapon, your instrument against the Mac Tirs, you are gravely mistaken. If you believe Alistair will be your puppet, even more so. It has been many years since you abandoned him to the Chantry. He is no boy now, but a man, a man with more knowledge of duty than you could have dreamt he would learn. He did not choose this path, but he will walk it.

"Alistair will be a good king," she asserted. Conviction rang in her every word. "Far better than he suspects now, and he will be his _own_ king." She pointed her finger down at the table, tapped it for emphasis. "On the day you swear fealty to Alistair, ser, be sure you swear _fealty_ to Alistair. Alistair is kindhearted and will forgive presumption on your part. I will not. I am his vassal in this, not yours, and in the end, we must let him stand alone if he is to be the king he must be."

I leaned back, regarding her. She misjudged me. While she had guessed correctly that I had believed I would have to help Alistair a good deal in his kingship, I would not be angry to be proven wrong in this instance. If Alistair had grown to be Maric's son in kind as well as in fact, no one would be prouder or louder in his support. As yet, I was not convinced. But it struck me as a very good sign that Gwyn Cousland was. I could not have hoped for a better ally for him, and in truth, as long as she loved and defended Alistair, I did not care whether she _liked_ me or not.

Love, though. That was the issue. Although my instincts said young Cousland's loyalty and love for my former charge was sincere and disinterested, I had to be certain that she was supporting Alistair for himself, and not for what she had to gain from it. " _Are_ you his vassal, my lady?" I challenged her.

She met my gaze. "I am."

"And nothing more?" I prodded, still more pointedly.

The corners of her mouth tightened, and her eyes grew chill, but to her credit she answered at once. "I did not say I was not anything more."

Still, it was apparent that she was not going to give anything to me for free, so following her example, I asked outright. "Do you seek the throne?"

Now she did hesitate. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the table. "I do not seek power," she said at last. "I have cause to know better than most what a heavy burden it can be."

It was a careful response. Too careful. "But you are his lover, are you not, as well as his knight and companion?"

Bless the girl, she didn't even flinch. "I am."

"And if Alistair becomes king, and he asks you to be his queen?"

Now there was no way for her to avoid the question, and finally I saw, feeling like a fool, that she had not answered it before, not because she wished to hide any ambition, but because she herself did not know the answer. She gnawed her bottom lip, and the knuckles of her fingers, clutching the table's edge, were white, so tight was her grip. "Such a decision would warrant careful consideration," she said at last in a low voice. "Although I would point out that I am hardly unqualified, and that a betrothal to the Couslands could strengthen Alistair's case, I am not only a Cousland now." She had regained some of her former energy for a moment, but now she dropped her gaze. "I am a Grey Warden as well. It would be a risky thing, to hazard both king and queen against the Blight. In addition, if my brother is . . . if Fergus is dead, and I wed Alistair—it would effectively put an end to my own house. Any children we had would have to be of his line and not of my own."

Now I felt I knew the lady, and I thought I understood, too, what about her had so captivated my brother, these last few years. Arresting features, rare courage and self-assurance, and a compelling eloquence, along with clear sight and a strong heart. And this the woman whose love and loyalty Alistair had laid a claim to? Whether it spoke to his luck, his taste, or—Maker grant it—his merit, that this lady loved him was a stronger argument for his worthiness to be king than anything she had said in his praise. And she did not love Alistair for what she had to gain. It had not occurred to me, but she was right about how much she had to lose through the alliance.

"A mighty sacrifice, indeed," I said gently. "Would you refuse him then?"

"I do not know," she admitted quietly, speaking now as much to herself, I sensed, as to me. "If Alistair and I agreed that, despite everything, it was the best course of action—"she broke off, and when she spoke again her voice was a mere whisper. "I cannot think of anything I might not sacrifice, anything I might not do, to aid him, to help him in this. Even . . . even that. Even my family's name, even what others might say, that I did it because—"

I rose abruptly. I had not been so moved by a lady since the early days I had known my Isolde, though the feeling was very different—she seemed at once both like my mother and the daughter I might have had—she seemed, I realized, like a queen. I walked around the table, took her hand, and brought it to my lips. "Our young king could have no truer friend, it seems to me, my lady. Nor a stronger ally."

She stood as well. "Then we understand one another?" she asked

"Perfectly, my lady. I do not have your belief in our young Alistair's abilities," I admitted, "But it heartens me to see you filled with so much confidence, and I know this much: I am confident in his ability to learn. I will watch eagerly to see the king you believe he can be."

Cousland sighed, her face sad for a moment. "He will be," she promised. "My only wish is that he would not see it so much as a trap or a cage, a curse passed on him by his father and a burden he must bear. I do not like to see him so unhappy." She bowed then, and I knew our audience was over. "Good afternoon, Arl Eamon."

"I will see you and your companions at supper tonight?"

"It will be our honor," Cousland replied. "And we thank you for your hospitality."

Without another word, she slipped out of the hall. She went to find Alistair, I guessed, to comfort him with her belief in his suitability for the role he must take up. Alas, I thought, I did not think young Cousland would ever care for me. She loved Alistair too well, resented too much what I had done to him in the past and what I was doing now. But she was a rare woman indeed. Alistair would sorely need a friend like her going into the future, and I wondered if, despite the difficulties, far from being a bad choice as queen consort, Gwyn might not be the best choice he could make. It was too bad for Teagan, though.


	9. Denouement

ix.

Dénouement

ALISTAIR

Gwyn came out of Orzammar in the afternoon, blinking in the sun. With her were Shale and Wynne, thank the Maker, but also two dwarves I didn't know. Gwyn caught sight of our fire among the camps and shops of the surface dwarves, said a word to both the dwarves with her, and they all crossed over to us. One of the dwarves went over to the liaisons from the Circle and from Redcliffe. She'd succeeded in securing dwarf aid against the Blight, then. But Wynne took the other and began introducing him to Leliana and Sten. I glanced over at Zevran. He shrugged. He had been right; we'd picked up another stray.

For a while things were really busy. Introducing the new members of the camp to one another, scraping dinner together for four more people than we'd been expecting, and Maker, those dwarves could eat! There was a lot of discussion about getting supplies to march the day after tomorrow, and where we would go. Winter had set in by now, and Morrigan pointed out that hunting the Dalish in the Brecilian Forest, where there wouldn't be much food available for several weeks yet, might be ill-advised. Gwyn answered just as reasonably that the darkspawn and the Blight were still on the march, and that on the other hand, we might not be able to afford to take the time to winter anywhere. In the end, we decided to purchase and barter for supplies to make for Warden's Keep. The journey was a long one, and would get us more than halfway to the Brecilian Forest. At the Keep we could resupply with Levi Dryden's folk, and there determine whether to head south or wait a few more weeks before seeking out the elves.

Through all the talking, I couldn't help but observe how drained Gwyn looked, how she was keeping close to her dog, Cavall. I'd noticed she did that when she was sad or scared. She was thin, too, sort of stretched, and her eyes were too bright, like she'd seen things, terrible things she would rather forget.

Maker, I'd been so afraid for her. Grey Wardens didn't go to the Deep Roads to come out again, and I'd known every moment she'd been down there that the darkspawn would sense her. That was why she'd said I had to stay behind—traveling together, we'd attract far too many of them, and we couldn't risk losing us both in the Deep Roads. Not with the Blight still raging on. If she had died, I could still lead our forces against the Archdemon.

I'd hated staying behind. I'd never noticed before—in every other venture we'd embarked upon we'd fought side by side—against bandits, dragon cultists, wolves, the undead, demons, and abominations it'd been the pair of us, and oh, she shot down our enemies by the legion. But I'd never realized how much better it made me feel, knowing that they'd have to go through me before they could get to her. Wynne was a healer. Shale was with us because it—or _she_ , perhaps. Gwyn had said once or twice that Shale seemed like a lady golem to her. Anyway, Shale was with us because Shale was bored. And when Gwyn had sent Zevran back to report that they were going on with a dwarf that none of us knew—well, nobody had liked it, and I had liked it least of all. Enough time had passed and I'd gotten enough of a feel for him that I knew Zevran wasn't going to betray and kill us. I still didn't like the way he looked at Gwyn. I really didn't like the way he talked to her—not that she ever encouraged him. He played it all off like a joke, but lately, I wasn't so sure. One thing I did know: in battle he was always there for her, just like I was. He knew where she was all the time, if she was in trouble, just like I did, and he wasn't a Grey Warden. So while I might not like the reason why I suspected he always protected her so well, I was more and more grateful to Zevran these days. If I wasn't going to be in the Deep Roads with her, I'd wanted him there.

I had asked her to lead our party, waived all that responsibility as soon as I possibly could. It had never occurred to me that when I did that, I had given her the power to order me back. Just like Duncan and the king at Ostagar. My brother. I'd followed then, too, and lost them both. Because true leaders led from the front. They didn't hesitate to take all the risks they asked others to take for them. But then they were the first to die.

It had been weeks. Five long weeks, not knowing where she was, if she was—I couldn't fathom it. If I lost her, too . . .

"Alistair."

Her voice was soft. I looked up from the fire, surprised. Dinner was over. Everyone had started drifting to their tents, and the last rays of the sun had set behind the Frostback Mountains. And there she was. I stood, opened my arms, and Gwyn walked into them without another word.

Every line of her was tight with a tension she'd been holding back all this time, so I held her, sort of stroking her hair and rubbing her back. She liked that, and it was so, so good to hold her again. Feel she was real, and still with us. She breathed deep, in and out. She was so strong, almost all the time. Sometimes she needed to let go. Then it was my turn to be strong for her for a little while.

Her hair smelled like wood smoke and some dwarfish soap she'd used down there, but beneath it was her own spicy, sweet, Gwyn smell. And as she started to relax, bit by bit, she felt warmer and softer. Her thumb started to move on the back of my neck. "I missed you, Gwyn," I murmured into her hair. "So much. I was worried. Five weeks. We were going into Orzammar again tomorrow, to see if anyone had heard any news."

"Again?" she inquired.

"We've been in three times already, but no one knew where you were," I explained. "The answer was always the same. 'She's in the Deep Roads, looking for the Paragon.' How could Bhelen make you do that?"

I felt her tense again. She was quiet a moment. Then she answered. "It was the only way to break the stalemate in the Assembly and get a king to give us our aid. Sending us down to the Deep Roads to look for Branka was far from the worst thing Bhelen did to become king." She hesitated. "It wasn't the worst thing I did for him, either. He'll be a strong leader, and we sorely need one. But Alistair, a good man died because I made Bhelen king."

She hid her face now, buried it in my shoulder, and I heard the raw pain and shame she'd been hiding from the others. "I don't know how the Wardens do it. Make these decisions based on what's necessary, ignoring what's right." She laughed softly, self-mockingly. "Or maybe I do. I did it, after all. But I don't like it. I never will."

I didn't know what to say. She wanted to hear she'd done the right thing, of course, that Orzammar needed a strong king to help fight the darkspawn, that she shouldn't blame herself. But she wanted me to be honest with her, too. Either way I was wrong, so I just kissed the top of her head. "There'd be something wrong with you if you did. It weighed on Duncan, too. I remember."

Her fingers tightened abruptly in my shirt. Then she broke away. She turned aside, fists clenched at her sides. "Doing these things because they're necessary doesn't make them just," she said, her tone suddenly dark and dangerous. "It doesn't make them right. Alistair, there's so much they didn't tell us. So much we needed to know."

There was something I didn't like in her face. Gwyn had had her issues with Duncan before—he'd invoked the Right of Conscription to get her to join the Wardens, made it a bargain to save her life from Arl Howe, who had seized her lands and killed her family. He'd dragged her away from her mother, leaving Lady Cousland to Howe's men. But this seemed like something new. A cold, heavy knot fell into my stomach, and my throat was suddenly tight. "Gwyn, what are you talking about?" I asked.

For a long time, she didn't say anything, and when she did, she didn't answer right away. "Alistair, never let them take me alive," she said instead. "Kill me first. I'll kill myself, if I can, but if I can't, promise me. Promise me you will _never_ let the darkspawn take me alive."

A cold chill passed over me. I closed the distance between her. Tentatively, I put a hand on her shoulder, and on a sudden hunch, I asked, "Gwyn, did you see something down there in the Deep Roads?"

She looked at me, a grim, desperate set to her jaw. "Did you ever wonder where they all come from?" she murmured. "They're all male. Have you noticed? So how do they reproduce? Well. I found out. It's us, Alistair. The women they capture."

Instinctively my hand tightened on her shoulder. I didn't want to hear this, but I knew that I must. "Dwarves lost in the Deep Roads," Gwyn continued. "Humans, elves, qunari they kidnap. The taint—it affects sexes differently. Men are the lucky ones, losing their minds, becoming ghouls, thralls to the horde. Women—I'm not sure that they _don't_ become ghouls, if they're left alone, but they're not. The darkspawn _do_ things to them, change them. I guess it's a mixture of forced cannibalism and the worst, blackest magic, but women become these enormous, mindless beasts. There's no trace of what they were before. There's just the darkspawn, and the _spawning_."

It was monstrous, unthinkable, and I swallowed hard, because it made a horrible sense. Worse, though, infinitely worse, was Gwyn's tone. Flat, matter-of-fact, when if I were her I would have been screaming and sobbing. "You saw them down there?" My voice came out in a strangled whisper.

Gwyn nodded wearily, and pulled away from me. "One. She was a dwarf named Laryn. Before they were done with her, they'd turned her into an abomination that had torn her own husband's face off and devoured her kinsmen." She wrapped her arms tight around herself, face bleak. "They're called broodmothers," she told me. "Research I found down in the Deep Roads suggests a single one can produce thousands of darkspawn in her lifetime. Turns out there's a very good reason the Wardens rarely recruit women into their ranks." Now, her voice had a strong, mocking note to it, a bitterness that wasn't a far cry from a spit in the face. "Unless they're damn sure a female Warden won't ever let herself get captured, to induct a woman into the Wardens is to risk adding hordes to the enemy forces."

Maker, she thought that they knew! She thought Duncan knew what the darkspawn did to women and still recruited her! It was impossible—though I had often wondered why there were so few female Grey Wardens—but no. It was too horrible to contemplate that the Wardens would ever risk that one of their own would be subject to such a fate, that Duncan would ever risk it. To die in battle against the darkspawn was one thing. What Gwyn described—if the Wardens allowed that, they would be no better than the monsters they fought, to say nothing of the risks Gwyn had already pointed out. But anyway, it didn't make sense. "That can't be," I argued. "A female Warden, if she survives the Joining, has thirty years before her Calling. Could the darkspawn even turn a woman of that age into one of those things?" The darkspawn could blight and warp what already existed, but they couldn't change the basic facts of existence; the fact that they used mortal women at all only supported that.

But Gwyn shook her head. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but a Warden isn't guaranteed thirty years after the Joining," she reminded me. "Especially during a Blight. She could be taken before then, and even if she isn't, some women do remain fertile even into their fifties."

She was right about the fighting, but at the mention of fertility, I brightened again. No. Even if the Wardens knew about the broodmothers, they had to know Warden women would be safe from that fate. "It has to be different for Wardens," I realized. "The Joining . . . it affects fertility rates. I never knew any Wardens that had children that didn't have them before . . ."

I trailed off. Gwyn's knees had buckled. She'd put a hand on Cavall's head for balance, staggered, and sat down on a rock. Now she stared up at me, bone white, eyes wide, and I rushed over. "Gwyn, what is it? What did I say?" I pleaded. She looked like I'd just stabbed her.

"Are you saying Grey Wardens are sterile anyway?" Her words came out slowly, and her voice shook.

I sank to my knees beside her, weak myself as I heard my words as she must have heard them. "You . . . you didn't know," I realized. _Fool._ "Of course you didn't," I muttered, suddenly furious with myself. I should have known. I should have realized. Everything she knew about being a Grey Warden, she'd heard from me. How could I have forgotten to tell her about this? "Gwyn, please don't look like that," I begged, desperate to wipe the stricken look from her face. "Don't look like that! No, Grey Wardens aren't sterile, exactly. From what I understand it's just harder for them to have children, and it gets harder and harder the further they get from the Joining, the further the taint progresses. I imagine it might be possible for a Grey Warden to have a child, if it hadn't been too long since their Joining . . ."I broke off. It would help her, knowing this, but it hardly made things better. She had needed to know about this. She had really needed to know about this. I knew how important her family was to her. She had reason to be worried.

Maker, _I_ had reason to be worried, I realized. So much had changed since Redcliffe, and now . . .

I met Gwyn's eyes, and saw the fear that had suddenly sprouted inside me reflected there. She'd understood immediately. As usual, she was five steps ahead of me, but I always got there in the end.

The taint was in her. If her brother was dead, Gwyn was the last of the Couslands. She could retake her teyrnir, but if she never had children, when she died they would lose it anyway. The taint was in me. If Eamon and the Landsmeet made me king, I would need an heir, too. She and I were both on a clock. How much time did we have left before it would be too late? A year? Five? Or less than that? And that was with normal partners. If we tried together . . .

Gwyn let out this sort of strangled laugh, and raked her fingers through her hair. She buried her face in her hands, like she was trying to physically hold back the tears. Her shoulders shook, whether with more silent laughter, or with silent sobs, I couldn't tell, but when she dropped her hands at last her eyes were dry. "Well. We can add it to the list of _wonderful_ things about being a Grey Warden that they _don't tell you before the Joining_ , can't we?"

"I never thought of it, Gwyn," I promised her. She had to know I hadn't been keeping it from her. She had to. "I swear. I didn't mean to _not tell you._ You have to believe me."

"No, I know," she said. But her voice was flat, gray in the darkness. She looked so . . . hopeless.

"It would be awfully inconvenient to make a child in the middle of a Blight, you know. I was just relieved it wasn't a huge possibility. I never thought . . ."My mouth was running without my head again. There was no way to justify my colossal stupidity, how I could have forgotten to tell her this, how I hadn't thought of it. As if it mattered now. I bowed my head and shut up.

Months ago, at the very beginning of our journey she'd told me something in Lothering when she had to give up going after her brother. I'd just been getting to know her then, just beginning to realize she was different from anyone I'd ever met, brave and beautiful and sharp with thorns, like the single rose before the Blight. She'd said, _we start dying the moment the chalice touches our lips. We kill everything we were before, everything we'd ever hoped to be or do in the future, and we spend the rest of our days dying, sacrificing our lives for a victory we never live to see._ I'd known how true it was then, but I hadn't realized everything that it meant.

Back when I had first joined the Wardens, it hadn't felt like much of a sacrifice. I'd never had a family, and of course as a Templar I knew I couldn't look forward to one, either. Not that anyone would have had me. I was worse than a penniless commoner. I was a bastard, an embarrassment. Didn't even have my own name to offer to anyone else. When Duncan had recruited me, it had seemed like a gift from the Maker. It was an opportunity to escape the monastery, the lyrium addiction the Chantry forced upon the Templars to control them once they'd taken their vows. It was a chance to do something good with my life, such as it was. Giving my life to protect the land from darkspawn had been about the best future I could imagine, back then.

So much had changed since then.

For the first time, I understood the bitterness Gwyn had tasted at the Joining, and knew I had tasted it, too. We'd always known it might end, of course. I'd known any number of things might tear us apart.

The Blight. My father's blood, compounded with her family situation. After that first time, we'd never talked about it, but I knew it weighed on her, that though it wasn't necessarily so, her responsibility to her family line very well might prove incompatible with any sort of long-term commitment to Maric Theirin's son.

I had never once thought that it would be the taint that tore us apart. That we were both Grey Wardens was what had brought us together. I'd never suspected that that was what would mean we couldn't stay that way.

Despite myself, my hand crept into hers, and I squeezed it, tight, tight, as much for my sake as for hers. I could feel her slipping away.

I couldn't believe how much I'd started to hope that it would all work out, that against all odds, two Wardens would somehow raise an army to defeat the Blight, kill the Archdemon, and save all of Thedas. That somehow we'd find her brother, alive, and she'd be off the hook for securing the future of the entire Cousland family line. That we'd bring Loghain to justice, with Eamon's plan or another where I wouldn't have to be king at all.

I could see all the lives we might have had falling away into shadow. In Weisshaupt or Denerim or at the ends of the earth, it wouldn't matter, because she would have been with me, all the way to the Deep Roads at the end of the line. I could _see_ the children we might have had, in the Anderfels or the palace or on the road—Maker, in Highever, if she wanted—little scamps with hazel eyes and dimples and every bit as brilliant as she was, getting into scrapes in the town, running around with Cavall, mouths all greasy with cheese and blackberry jam I'd given them after bedtime against her express orders. I could see them running to me with their triumphs and to Gwyn with their hurts, telling us both all their plans. I could see Gwyn, all pale and exhausted, sleeping in a chair with a crick in her neck because _our_ child had fallen asleep in her arms and she hadn't wanted to wake them.

I looked at Gwyn, despairing, because I'd had no idea until just now how much it had been in the back of my mind. How much I'd thought about it, someday, wanted it, someday. I'd had no idea how much I'd been growing my hopes for the future, when I'd already doomed them to execution the day the Joining chalice touched my lips. Or the day it had touched hers.

Gwyn's thumb moved over the top of my hand, but her eyes were sad, and I knew she was seeing our futures fall away, too. "Alistair," she whispered. "If we can't have children someday, do you even want me?"

I'd hugged her before she finished saying it. "Shut up. Of course I do. Don't be stupid."

But Gwyn was never stupid, so gently, she extricated herself and put her cool, calloused hands on either side of my face, looking into my eyes. "If we can't have children, and you become king and don't—with someone else—how are we doing anything but delaying the civil war a couple decades? One way or another, we'll both have to answer the Calling."

Now I saw another future in my head: a horrible future, a Shayna-and-Calenhad future. That was another thing she had told me. She had predicted she couldn't be Mairyn and Shayna both for me, not now she'd joined the Wardens. I'd told her it was nonsense at the time—if they were going to make me be a prince and a Grey Warden, there was no reason she couldn't be a lady and a Grey Warden, but now I could see it. They'd have to have an heir, so they'd make me marry a Mairyn. How had Leliana put it? _She of incomparable wisdom and beauty, with lovely, white hands unscarred by any blade, face unchapped by wind and rain and care._ I didn't want someone like that. I wanted Gwyn, in battle leathers with the archer's callouses on her fingers and her nose just a bit too long, with her lightning-quick intelligence and stubborn honor, for the awkwardness that surfaced when she was caught being kind, amusingly at odds with her ordinary eloquence. I wanted Gwyn in all her grief and guilt and rage.

Oh, she'd still be there, I had no doubt. She'd keep the vows she'd made to me, unasked. She'd continue to be my knight, my advisor, my friend, when I married a Mairyn. Maybe the Warden Commander, or a Chancellor or something. Maybe she'd be teyrna of Highever. But eventually, she'd marry someone else, too. I'd have to invite Gwyn and her lord husband to state dinners and balls and councils. I'd meet her children, children with hazel eyes, every bit as brilliant as she was, but they'd look like someone else. And if she wasn't with me, not like we were now, someday, decades down the road, if the Calling came to her first, I'd get a message. Some page boy would come to my study or the great hall or the garden and tell me that Lady Gwyn had gone all alone with her dagger out to the woods one day, and . . .

No. I couldn't bear it. I hugged her again, and this time, she hugged me back just as desperately, got down off her stone to join me on her knees, pressing into me. "We could always rethink this whole 'make me king' business," I murmured into her hair, even knowing it was no good. But if I wasn't king, they wouldn't make me have an heir with someone else. There wouldn't be any children, but I could stay with her all the way, until the end of the line.

Her cheek was wet against mine. She was crying. She kissed my cheek, my forehead. "We're not rethinking the make you king business," she said. "We've talked about this. It's the best option. You're the only one with a chance of deposing Loghain and Anora peacefully, and it's the absolute best way to ensure your safety. And you'll be good, Alistair. You'll be an amazing king. That hasn't changed."

I didn't have her confidence that I would be a good king, but I knew she was right that I was the _best_ king, as terrifying as that was. There was no way we could leave Ferelden to Loghain. I didn't want to see what would happen to the kingdom if we let this war go on, and if I needed to be king to stop it, I would. But if it meant losing her!

I could beg her to run, to forget our responsibilities and just go, where there weren't any darkspawn or traitorous usurpers to depose, no kingdoms to save and no nobles to demand we have children we might not ever be able to conceive. But I knew if we did that, we could never be happy together. And she would never agree.

If the Landsmeet went sour and I somehow escaped death but wound up exiled, that'd be one thing. She'd follow me without question. But Gwyn didn't have it in her to abandon her responsibilities. Gwyn might rail against them, hate that she'd never had a chance to learn them all before she'd signed on with the Grey Wardens. She might be miserable and angry and bitter. But she would do her duty. We both would. I knew, deep down, that that was one of the things I loved best about her, one of the things she loved best about me.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

She sobbed, convulsed, but almost immediately stifled it. That was another knife to the heart, that now she was trying to be strong with me, too, that now she felt she had to do that. "I'm sorry, too," she said.

It felt like my heart was somewhere in my boots, and my chest throbbed where it had been, like a wound. I didn't want to say it, but I knew I had to ask. "Should we end it?"

Her arms tightened reflexively, so tight that it hurt, but unlike the ache in my chest, I welcomed this pain. "Not yet."

I kissed her hair. "Okay," I said, torn between relief and terrible, terrible sadness. I silently vowed to make the most of every day, every moment we had left together.

I pulled back, still gripping her shoulders. "I won't stay behind again," I warned her.

Gwyn nodded. "I won't ask you. I missed you, too."

I let her go. "Gwyn. About what you saw. What you asked me to do. If the darkspawn—"

She shuddered. "I'm not sure you're right," she said. "That it wouldn't work on a Warden, that they couldn't turn even a barren woman into one of those monsters. This is dark magic we're talking about. The worst, most horrible . . . even if it wouldn't work, what if they tried it anyway?" She dropped her gaze. "I'm never going back there," she vowed. "I don't think any female Grey Warden would, if she knew. You can't ask me to let them—I'm ending it. If they ever take me, or when I hear my Calling."

I could hear the death in her words, like the ring of the funereal bells. Bitterly, I wondered if she was right after all. She usually was. Had Duncan known what the darkspawn did to the women they captured? Could they do it to Wardens, too? Had it been another decision he'd made for the greater good, like the decision she'd made in Orzammar to side with Bhelen Aeducan? That she'd be more of an asset to the Order than a risk?

"I understand," I told her. She shook her head. "Gwyn, I get it," I repeated. "But you can't ask me to help you. If I ever think you're going to be taken, I won't give up. I'll rescue you, or die myself. But I can't—I _will not be able_ to kill you."

She looked up then. I smiled sadly, shrugged. "And if we get through this, and you hear your Calling before I do—don't go alone," I murmured. "Whatever happens to us, don't go alone." That was the worst thought, that she would die alone, scared and despairing, without hearing I loved her one last time, without anyone. "Don't let them come tell me one day that you've just gone out into the woods with your dagger and—don't go alone." I was begging, I knew. I didn't care. "Not that it won't break my heart, however you go, but please, if you hear it first, send me word. Wait for me. Let me be there. Then I can—"I couldn't go on.

For a long moment, she just stared up at me. She tried to smile, couldn't. She half raised her hand to my face, then let it fall. "Wynne tried to tell me," she said. "Alistair . . ." she trailed off. Bowed her head. When she spoke again her voice had fallen into a new cadence, and she half-sang the words of an old, old song, a traditional ballad the minstrels often sang at feasts and festivals.

"' _He shone brighter than a sun in the heavens_

 _He fell just as quickly as the dusk_

 _But Calenhad, father of Ferelden, did not rise again.'"_

I couldn't help but shiver, and this time, when she raised her hand, she didn't drop it. Her fingers tangled in my hair and brushed gently down my cheek. "Not for me, darling," she whispered. "Never for me."

I looked down at her, at her wide, serious, wise eyes. The hazel color had always been a little shocking in the pallor of her face. Her eyelashes were all stuck together with the tears she'd cried, and the ones she hadn't. Her mouth was still wavering, on the edge of either a smile or a sob.

 _Not for me._ Maker, as if I'd had a choice! I kissed her, and she kissed me back. "Don't tell me you aren't worth it," I said defiantly.

She didn't answer, but caught my hand. "Come with me. It's late, and we've lost a lot of time." I followed her to her tent. Maybe the end was coming for us. Maybe it would end like Shayna and Calenhad. But not tonight.


	10. A Proposal

x.

A Proposal

GWYN

It was well into the second watch of the night when I finally went to him. I opened the door to Alistair's room slowly, careful not to make a noise that might wake someone down the hall or alert the servants. Alistair was sitting in a chair by the hearth reading with his back to me. He spoke without turning around. "Little late tonight, aren't you?"

I shut the door behind me before I answered. "Hard for everyone to sleep tonight."

"I guess the prospect of ending a civil war or being executed for treason could be an impediment to a restful night," Alistair mused. He closed his book and laid it down on the chest by the chair. I noted the title. He'd been reading Arl Edarn's famous treatise on a ruler's responsibilities to the people. It was a book my father had loved well and ensured I was familiar with growing up. Edarn's work had done much to codify the Ferelden monarchy's answerability to the Landsmeet, the nobles, and the people at large. I had not suggested Alistair read it, nor had Eamon, to my knowledge. I smiled with some pride. Alistair was determined to be a good king.

"People in the halls?" he asked me.

"Many," I confirmed. "Or up talking and drinking in their rooms, anyway. Better to be discreet."

I saw the edge of his mouth twist into a self-mocking smile. "Because even if it's hardly a deep, dark secret that Teyrn Cousland's little girl has taken Maric's bastard as her lover, it's not exactly the thing to advertise it. We don't want to embarrass Eamon, Isolde, and their guests. Noble code: 'Do whatever you want, so long as it stays behind closed doors.'"

As it so very often did, Alistair's levity had a bite to it. The self-deprecating strain was nothing new, but it wasn't often he sharpened his wit on me. I swallowed. Unsurprising, really, both that he was on edge about what we faced tomorrow and that he'd chosen to vent his nervousness as anger over something that must have hurt him before, both here and at Redcliffe. But just because I understood did not mean that it did not hurt, and Alistair's anger was really the last thing I needed tonight. "We don't want to embarrass Eamon, Isolde, and their guests," I repeated, softly and without sarcasm. "I'm not ashamed of us, Alistair, but if our friends may have a problem with something we do, it's discourteous to make them uncomfortable. If this were camp, or our home, it would be a different matter. But it's not."

Alistair sighed. "Of course you're right. I just hate all this sneaking around—"he turned and saw me for the first time, and stopped mid-sentence. His mouth fell open.

Of course he was already dressed to retire. He had removed his armor, taken off his boots, and untied the top half of his shirt already. I smoothed my dress. I could feel my face aflame.

I didn't care for Lady Isolde Guerrin, but I could say at least two good things for Eamon's wife: she wasn't stingy, and she knew how to dress. When I had told her that I wanted a formal gown made up, she had gotten me one in the very latest style. I knew the rich, patterned, gold, blue, and brown brocade suited me, and Isolde had had it expertly fitted. She had also offered me the services of her personal hairdresser to wash and restyle my hair. It had been cleaned and brushed, and now it was glossy and soft, held back from my face with a wooden headband, carved into flowers and vines with tiny owls peeping out from among the foliage. For the first time since the fall of Castle Cousland, I was _dressed_ like Teyrn Cousland's little girl.

Alistair didn't know how to take it. At least his blush mirrored my own, I thought. His hand wandered up to his hair of its own accord. "I—uh—"

"Eloquent," I said, then ducked my head. My embarrassment had made me curt. I sounded like Morrigan. I took a breath and tried again. "Do you like it?"

He found his tongue, then. "I—Gwyn—Maker's breath, you look fantastic. Amazing. You are a goddess, and Andraste knows why you've given your favor to me, a mere mortal—"

I smiled, and shook my head. "No need to blaspheme. There is such a thing as overdoing it."

"Is it something like wearing a ball gown as a nightdress?" Alistair wanted to know. "I mean, you're beautiful, but I don't understand. If I'd known we were dressing up tonight—how's my hair?" He kept fidgeting with it.

I walked up to him, plucked his wrist away, released it, and smoothed his hair back down again. "Better before you started messing with it," I told him. "It's fine, Alistair." I chuckled, gazing at the firelight shining on his toned, golden skin and catching light in his hazel eyes, quite satisfied he was mine. "You're the better looking of the pair of us eight days out of ten, anyway." A true statement. I knew that no one would ever call me an ugly or plain woman—far from it—but Alistair's beauty was something above and beyond the everyday.

He smirked. "Well, I didn't want to come right out and say it—"I gasped in mock outrage and slapped his arm. Alistair grinned at me. "I jest, love. In all seriousness, though: why?"

Now that it came to it, though, I hesitated. "I just wanted to dress up a bit for you tonight."

Alistair's face fell. "Ah. I see. I suppose it is tomorrow, isn't it? The Landsmeet. This time tomorrow, I'll be king prospective of Ferelden. Or dead."

I decided there was as good a place to start as any. "That's what I wanted to talk about," I said, though it wasn't, not entirely. "Can we sit? We should sit."

Alistair gestured to the pair of chairs by the hearth. "Please. May as well hear all the grim details sitting down as standing up."

I brushed by him and took the seat he indicated, and he sat opposite me. "Are you ready?" I asked him.

Alistair made a face. "As ready as any bastard ever is to wade into the middle of a civil war, denounce a national hero, and declare himself king, I suppose." His face straightened then, as he realized we couldn't joke about it anymore. He nodded. "That is, yes. I'm ready."

"We've discussed how things will go," I reminded him. "Eamon will present your claim to the Landsmeet, then we denounce Loghain's rule. Many people have already agreed to bear witness of his crimes and support your claim. I believe our case is strong enough the Landsmeet will rule in your favor. They'll confirm your claim."

"Then I announce I'm upholding the actions of the Grey Wardens against the Blight, order the remaining Ferelden armies to join their forces with ours, and we pass sentence on Loghain, I know," Alistair finished. "We've gone over this, Gwyn. I can do it. I can bring Loghain to justice, unite the people. Get our soldiers refocused on the Blight. I mean, if we don't do that, nothing else really matters, does it? As for the rest of it—the actual ruling bit—I'll have to learn that, after we defeat the Blight, but we can cross that bridge when we come to it. What worries me about tomorrow is Anora."

I looked down. "She might be a problem," I conceded. "I've asked her to step down graciously and support us, but she may not. She may even speak against us. Eamon believes she might. There may be a fight tomorrow, if the queen comes out against us or if Loghain refuses to step down quietly. Even if the Landsmeet does rule in your favor, the Mac Tirs are still powerful enemies, with many allies."

Alistair sighed. "I don't want to have to kill Anora," he admitted. "She was a good queen while Cailan was alive. The only reason she's not now is because she loves her father. I can't fault her for that. Nor for not wanting to give up the throne to me."

I raised an eyebrow. "You don't have to kill her," I told him. "You'll be king. It'll be your decision."

Of course, it was almost certain that Anora would not extend Alistair the same courtesy if she won the day tomorrow. He was too much of a threat, and we had carried our movement for the throne too far now. Even if the Landsmeet decided in Anora or Loghain's favor, if Alistair was not executed, the civil war would continue. He was Maric's son, and there were Theirin loyalists enough to give the Mac Tirs trouble for a long time. Still, I was pleased that Alistair's instinct was to spare the queen. We had no proof that Anora had had any part in her father's wrongdoings, and she might have her uses. But I would not tell him I thought he was right. I wanted him to own his decisions, unswayed by my approval or disapproval.

"Oh, thanks," Alistair drawled. "Because that makes me feel so much better."

"Always happy to help," I answered. A silence stretched between us, taut as a bowstring.

Alistair broke it. He gestured to my gown. "You said there might be fighting. It'd be a shame to get blood all over your pretty dress."

Back to that again. I twisted my hands in my lap, but could not untwist the knots in my stomach, nor could I meet Alistair's gaze. "I'm not wearing this tomorrow," I admitted.

"You could vote in the Landsmeet, on behalf of Highever."

I shook my head. "Conflict of interest. I can't attend the Landsmeet as both a representative of the Grey Wardens and a representative of Highever. You'll need me there as a Grey Warden. In addition, I'm one of the people putting your claim forward. Eamon will have to recuse himself from the vote as well."

"That makes sense," Alistair agreed. "Then—"

"Why the dress?" I finished. I blushed again. "I needed it," I murmured. "Fancy feathers—I've found that sometimes they give me the courage to say what needs to be said, when I can't say it any other way. Armor provides one sort of strength; the dress provides another. Tonight, you needed to see me like this—Lady Gwyn Cousland, the daughter of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland, teyrn and teyrna of Highever."

Alistair's gaze sharpened. "Why?" he asked. "I know who you are, Gwyn. I've always known. Why is it important that I see it? What do you want to say?" I scrunched the fabric of my dress in my fingers, still hesitating. It felt so wrong, speaking of it like this, but it had to be said all the same. Alistair, sensing my anxiety, softened. "You know you can tell me anything," he added.

"I can help you," I said finally. I was still clenching and unclenching my fingers in my dress. I was wrinkling it, but I couldn't seem to stop. "The ruling bit. I can help. I won't rule for you, but my whole life, I've been taught the things you'll need to know. I was practically raised to—"

"Marry a nice young arling," Alistair recalled. He sat very still. I felt his gaze like a heat on my face. "Or a bastard prince. Gwyn, is this a proposal?"

I took in a shaky breath, blushing all the harder. "It should be my father saying this. Or Fergus, or a family friend. Well, actually, usually the man would come to us, if he was anyone else in Ferelden and most anyone out of it. You're about the only one in Thedas where we would come to you, or your family, unless the prospective alliance was with the Orlesian empress's nephew, or Antivan royalty or something . . ." I was babbling. He didn't need to know about the etiquette of noble marriage alliances. I stopped. "But there's nothing usual about this," I said. "My family and yours are all dead and gone, so there's just me, in a dress I begged off a woman I _detest_ , looking like a brazen idiot as I tell you I'm not actually a bad choice, if you were looking for—for a wife."

There, I'd got through it. There was a long silence, or it felt so to me, before Alistair reached over and took my hands from where they still worked and clenched in the fabric of my dress. His hands were big and warm and comforting, and I stilled. "Gwyn. Look at me," he said. "You're not an idiot. And if you are a _bit_ brazen, I've always admired your wayward ways. Listen: I never thought you were a bad choice. I've said it, over and over. I love you. I can't imagine being without you. I've been _dreading_ it, these last few weeks, how I'd possibly manage when we had to end it. But I thought that was what you wanted. If we marry—things will get complicated."

I sighed. He knew was that I was as sad and desperate as he was about ending it, and he thought it had gotten the better of me. He didn't believe I meant my proposal, or didn't think that I would in the end, so he was trying to save us by returning me the arguments I'd given him ending it, even if it broke his heart. My stomach twisted miserably. He was wrong to think I didn't mean it, but he was right, too. If we married, it would get complicated. "I know," I said. "Nothing's changed. We still don't know if Fergus is alive or dead. Both of us need to have children, and it will likely be difficult enough with other people, unaffected by the taint. But just—I started thinking. I love you, Alistair. I want to help you any way I can. I don't just want you to be king. I want you to be happy, too. And I thought, maybe we handle the complications, share this burden, like we've shared all the rest, because we'll handle it better together." I spread her hands, shrugged.

"If I'm wrong, if you don't think it's worth it to try, then we don't have to say another word about it,"

I looked down, and Alistair squeezed my hand until I did look up and meet his eyes, and saw an expression of such relief there that my heart ached in response. "You're not wrong," he said simply. He moved over in his chair and pulled me over. Unresisting, I sat with him, half in his lap, half on the seat, and he put his arm around me. I leaned into him, grateful for his warmth and support. "Let's talk," he said. "What will we do about the heir difficulty?"

I couldn't help but laugh. "Yours or mine?"

"Both," Alistair answered, unfazed. "We're going to run into the same issue either way."

It was a question I'd spent some time considering lately, and I had my answer ready. "If Fergus is alive, it might not even be an issue for me," I told Alistair. "But our first order of business after the Blight was always going to be to find him, to settle matters in Highever. If he's dead—"I inhaled sharply. I still was not resigned to it, still not prepared, even after all this time, to truly be the last. "If he's dead, I'll make sure our people are taken care of. If he's alive, but chooses not to marry again or have any children, he will." That would be a pain all its own, I knew. The succession would have passed to Oren after my brother. My brother had been lucky—although he had married Oriana for the alliance and not for love, they had found themselves well-suited in the end, and Fergus had developed a deep esteem and fondness for my gentle, sensible sister-in-law. Their son had been his pride and joy. Carrying on the line would be a hard and bitter duty for him now, I knew, if he lived.

If he lived. I did not relish the pain I would bring him, but Maker have mercy on me, in my selfishness, I hoped he lived.

Alistair caught my mood, and his arms tightened around me. "I promise: I'll help you any way I can," he said again. "And—I'm sorry."

"It's nothing."

Alistair shook his head, eyes full of compassion and understanding. "It's not nothing," he insisted. "I know how much your family, your responsibilities mean to you. You're willing to give it all up—your teyrnir, possibly the future of the Cousland family name, to marry me, and I want you to know I know that that's _everything._ I want you to know I know," he repeated, suddenly smiling slightly, "so you can never tell me I wasn't grateful when you're cross and want to pick a fight in the future."

I smiled, too, though it was weak, and rested my cheek against his chest. "Would I do that?" I whispered.

"You never know," Alistair teased.

"As for you, that's harder," I admitted, returning to the matter at hand. "But we're young yet, both of us. Not too far from the Joining. We might have a little bit of time, maybe, right?"

Alistair went still, hesitated. "Gwyn—"

I swallowed. "I know it's a long shot," I went on, "But I figure we'll have all the help we need addressing any problems, and researching ways to circumvent them. Physicians, mages. There's Avernus, too. He knows more about the taint than anyone. If he can find another way to lessen its power, an ethical way, that won't turn us into monsters and doesn't require any blood sacrifice—"

That got his attention. His hands tightened on my waist, and he looked sharply at me, hopeful for the first time. "Do you think he could?" he asked.

"I don't know," I conceded. "But it's worth a shot, right?" When we had wintered at Warden's Peak, I had floated the idea of combating the taint's effect on fertility with the mage with this very purpose in mind. Avernus had been interested in the possibilities—he had admitted that adapting the taint without resorting to blood magic would be a challenge, but he also had a scholar's mind. He enjoyed a challenge.

Alistair looked thoughtful. "If he could come up with something, or someone else could—I suppose there are fringe benefits to being royalty after all, aren't there?" He was getting it now, how we could use the crown's resources to help us with this, and it wouldn't even be an abuse of power. Still, doubt clouded his eyes. "But what if we can't, Gwyn?" he asked again. "What if no one ever finds a way for us, and we never have a child? Perhaps you could, you know, with someone else."

I cupped his face in my hands. How I loved him. It hurt, of course, like he was wringing my heart with his bare hands, dragging the _maybe_ I'd begun to hope against hope for the last few weeks into the light like this and revealing it for the feeble thing that it was. But I reflected that I would not love him so well if he did not do so: if he was any less thoughtful, any less dedicated to what his duty would be as king, any less respecting of my strength, my ability to handle the weight of this decision. I could be giving up any chance to have children at all tonight, only for a feeble, nigh-impossible _maybe_ that I could be Alistair's wife and have his.

He was worried about me, but his situation would not be so desperate. "You might be able to have a child with someone else as well," I pointed out. "If we can't, or don't right away, they'll pressure you to—"

He hugged me so tight for a moment I could not breathe. He had read the letter Eamon had written to Cailan, too. "Never," he said fiercely. "You don't have to worry about that." His grip relaxed, and his mouth quirked. "At any rate, by the time they started worrying about you, it'd be much less likely I could have a child with anyone else, either."

I laughed. "Well. _That's_ comforting." I was quiet for a space, but his question still hung in the air. I bowed my head, and told him my thoughts. "If we never have children, it might be a good thing if you do spare Anora. Thirty isn't too old, whatever Eamon thinks. She could marry again, provide a future for the kingdom—"Alistair frowned, but I was already moving on. "And if not her—well. Even if we don't have children, we will have time. We can make sure Ferelden doesn't fall into chaos after we're gone."

Alistair searched my face for a moment. I had the sense he was weighing me, judging my sincerity. He had been playing my role all this time, but now he knew I was with him at last, I saw his face clear. I had known the future weighed upon him, but only now did I realize just how much. He smiled at me with such joy and relief that my heart throbbed once in reflexive response. "I agree," he said. "That's all I needed to hear, Gwyn. You're sure this is what you want?'

I ran my fingers through the short thatch of his hair and smiled back at him. Now that it was done, I was. More than anything. "I asked, didn't I?"

"Then do you accept my troth, Gwyn Cousland?" He asked, gently teasing and sweetly sincere at the same time. "To be my queen and my wife and my _partner in every sense of the word_?"

He'd remembered. And indeed, that was why I had chosen him—Alistair was already my partner. I was his strength and joy as he was mine. We had faced every foe, every obstacle, side by side. I was confident no other could do it so well, nor would they. The crown, the taint, the Archdemon itself—we would meet them as we had met everything else. Together. "I do," I said. "If it pleases you, we'll take our chances, the bitterness with the joy."

Alistair sealed our betrothal with a kiss. "I am _well_ pleased, my lady," he told me, and I heard in his voice and felt in his body how he meant it. "You know, this is usually where I wake up in my dreams," he remarked. "Or where everyone starts pointing and laughing, because I'm not wearing any pants."

"No dream, darling," I said. "This is real life, and alas, you are still wearing your pants, though your shirt is somewhat wrinkled."

Alistair looked down at my dress. "So is your pretty dress," he said, genuinely remorseful. "I'm sorry, Gwyn. I don't think court gowns are really conducive to sitting two-to-an-armchair."

"That's not generally within the parameters of their use, no." I kissed him. "Don't worry. No regrets."

"Good," Alistair murmured against my lips. "We'll announce our betrothal at the Landsmeet tomorrow. Ought to calm some of the stuffier nobles down, Maric's bastard marrying Teyrn Cousland's daughter."

"One of the many benefits of getting married," I agreed. "Another is we won't have to sneak around anymore. The Landsmeet is a proper forum to announce such things, and even if it wasn't me, nobles like their kings married. For some reason, single kings make them nervous."

"Probably because behind any good king at all is an excellent wife," Alistair mused.

I grinned. "Oh, you'll do just fine," I told him, and kissed him again.


	11. Landsmeet

xi.

Landsmeet

ALFSTANNA

There was a hum of uneasiness in the Landsmeet chamber of the palace today, I thought. A metallic smell of danger in the air. Everyone was whispering to one another—lords and ladies as well as the servants and guardsmen. I looked back at my own guard and signaled him to be ready. I could taste it: there would be blood on the floor before the Landsmeet was done.

Loghain was pacing by the dais as Eamon finished his case. He put me in mind of a cat. Silent, restless, all the more deadly because of his fear. Oh, yes, Loghain Mac Tir was afraid. I could see it in his face, the way his eyed darted around the room, and the impatience of his movements, and his fear made me glad. He should be afraid. He had freed a maleficar to silence Eamon before he could speak today. He had imprisoned my brother, who had only been doing his duty as a Templar in trying to capture the man. Irminric was in spasms back at my estate as his body went through the lyrium withdrawal. He was delirious and malnourished after untold weeks in Rendon Howe's dungeons, but he still remembered his duty. He still remembered how Loghain had thwarted that duty and had him imprisoned before he could tell. It was obvious to me the teyrn of Gwaren had something to hide. He was no longer the hero of Ferelden.

Eamon's claim was that Loghain had effectively usurped the Theirin throne. He said that at Ostagar Loghain had ignored the signal to attack the darkspawn and left King Cailan and the Wardens to be massacred there.

Many didn't believe him, I could see. Maric had been Loghain's dearest friend. Loghain had been another father to Cailan even before he had become his father in law as well. Ridiculous, they thought, to accuse Loghain Mac Tir of betraying Maric's son under any circumstances.

Others were less certain of Loghain's innocence, but wondered if he had done what Eamon had said he had done at Ostagar, as different as he had been these last few years, why the Grey Wardens were still absent from the Landsmeet. If they were blameless, what had they to fear? And always, where is Alistair? Maric's supposed bastard that Eamon would have them accept as king, sight unseen.

I had no such doubts, about Loghain or Alistair. I had seen the Wardens in Denerim with my own eyes, and they were far from beaten or afraid. It was somewhat concerning that they had not yet appeared at the Landsmeet, but I was more concerned that some treachery kept them out than I was that they had lied about their claims. Even worse to my mind, though, was the absence of the queen. Where was Anora?

She had been missing for days, since before the Wardens' attack on Rendon Howe's estate that had ended in the death of the arl and the discovery of my brother in his dungeons. I had heard that she had no real power at all anymore, that Loghain had expanded his power far beyond its original bounds, and that Anora might fear for her very life, but while I knew Loghain had committed sins against man and the Maker to preserve his secrets and preserve his power, even I found it hard to credit that he would threaten the life of his only child. But Anora's voice was a powerful one in the Landsmeet, and her absence was only adding to the unrest in the hall.

I did not like any of it: the absence of the queen, the absence of the Wardens, all the suspicion in the air. I liked still less the direction everything seemed to be going. I had come today meaning to testify against Loghain, but without the testimony of the Wardens, that course was beginning to seem unwise. The mood was more against Eamon every second. People were asking what Eamon knew of Ostagar, anyway, since it was well known that he was in Redcliffe when King Cailan fell—he had presented only secondhand accounts. I heard others muttering about his disinterestedness in Alistair—he had admitted to helping raise the bastard from boyhood. And many—many were angry that Eamon had called the Landsmeet at all, that we debated among ourselves while the darkspawn ravaged the lands.

Arl Wulff was beside me in the gallery, and he was one of the angry ones. He'd lost his holding and his two sons to the horde. Every minute the Landsmeet had continued, he had looked wearier and more out of temper. "This is pointless," he growled under his breath. "Why does Eamon waste our time with this when the darkspawn are on our doorstep? We are being overrun!"

"We are being overrun," I retorted, "And Loghain will not send for aid and outlaws our own defenders. There is merit to Eamon's accusations against the teyrn, and evidence Loghain has tried to have him killed for it." Although I was careful my words did not carry across the Landsmeet Chamber, I could not—would not restrain myself entirely. The darkspawn were the bigger threat—that was true—but Loghain posed no small one to the security and welfare of the kingdom.

Wulff looked at me, startled. "What? I know nothing of this." I shook my head. I knew now was not the time. If the Wardens came—or if the vote failed, perhaps I would share what I knew of Loghain's evil dealings with Wulff and a few others, and we could form another plan, but for now, it was enough that Wulff was once again invested in the proceedings. Weary, grieved, and angry, Wulff was still a just man, I knew. Perhaps he, at least, would give more consideration to Eamon's arguments. I turned my attention back to the floor.

Eamon was finishing his case. "My lords and ladies of the Landsmeet, Teyrn Loghain would have us give up our freedoms, our traditions, out of fear! He placed us on this path, yet we should place our destiny in his hands? Must we sacrifice everything good about our nation to save it?"

But as I looked around, my heart sunk, and my stomach turned. I gripped the rail of the gallery, feeling the grain of the wood rub against my palms, and studied the shine of the finish. Noted a crow in the rafters. Eamon would not carry the vote. The confusion in the hall was thick as the spring fog that was blanketed the hills of my bannorn in the mornings at this time of the season. Not half of those assembled had been even partially persuaded by Eamon's arguments. Not in the absence of the Wardens. Not with the queen missing from the Landsmeet.

My cousin Elise, wife to Bann Yoren, and also standing beside me in the gallery, sensed my anger and disappointment, my fear for the arl. She shot me a quizzical glance. She only knew what most of them knew: that Eamon had presented only the evidence of others, and that the others had not appeared to argue their case for themselves. Still, she joined the lukewarm applause for Eamon's address. There was that, at least. I wondered if she knew that its half-heartedness was Eamon's death sentence.

Loghain knew he had won. He stepped forward, clapping his hands as well, but his applause was a mockery, and I grit my teeth and resisted the impulse to call my guard or seize my dagger. Loghain may have been a hero many years ago, but Eamon had always been far the worthier of the two, and the injustice of it all was like a burning brand. "A fine performance," Loghain called. "But no one here is taken in by it. You would attempt to put a puppet on the throne and every soul here knows it. The better question is, 'Who will pull the strings?'"

Elise suddenly grabbed my arm, and I started, glancing at her. "Alfstanna, look!" she whispered, pointing excitedly at the entrance. "Isn't that Gwyn Cousland?"

I followed her finger. The relief was overwhelming. "Thank the Maker. It's the Wardens."

Elise frowned. "Lady Gwyn?" she repeated in some confusion. "She's a Warden now? I thought she had died with her family—how fortunate she did not."

I shook my head. "No, Cousin. She lives, and leads the fight against the darkspawn."

Wulff had turned his attention to the entrance as well. He bit back an oath at the same time that Elise tightened her hand on my arm, and I knew both of them had seen Gwyn's companion. There was a new outbreak of whispering and muffled gasps around the hall, and I smiled, sensing the change rippling through the hall.

It was not Lady Gwyn that had caught their attention. Oh, she was impressive enough, of course, clad in dragonskin mail without device or sigil, armed to the teeth with bow and arrows, dagger and longsword, with her famed mabari hound at her heels. I remembered how I had envied her—how all the noble children of Denerim had envied her—when word had got around that she had imprinted him in Highever. But Gwyn, her dog, and the elder mage in Circle robes were not nearly as interesting to the Landsmeet as the young man also in their company. He was the one that had everyone's eyes, and not just because his griffon shield had announced the company's purpose. Alistair's resemblance to his father and half-brother before him was not only undeniable, it was outright uncanny.

It had been one of the first things I had noticed myself when I had first seen him the other day. Now I saw the differences as well. Alistair was young—very young—only just come to manhood. He was as fair as his half-brother had been, but his bearing and demeanor were that of a soldier, not a prince. His hair was cropped short, his manner was businesslike and unassuming. As he had the day I had spoken to Lady Gwyn, he let her take the lead now. I wondered if it was because he did not wish to appear self-serving, or if his reticence indicated a deeper lack of confidence. At any rate, most everyone had recognized him, and all realized who he must be.

One of Loghain's strongest arguments had been immediately defeated by the very appearance of Alistair, as I had known it would be. No one who had known Maric and Cailan and looked upon Alistair could say that Eamon's claim of Alistair's true parentage was spurious. It was beyond question that Alistair was Maric's son.

I supposed that was why Loghain didn't spare Alistair so much as a glance, despite the whispers in the hall, but instead fixated entirely on Lady Gwyn. "Ah! And here we have the puppeteer," he cried. He chose not to give Alistair the legitimacy of a direct address, but to speak entirely to Lady Gwyn, the acting general of the army the Wardens were amassing to fight against the Blight, according to all reports. "Tell us, Warden: How will the Orlesians take our nation from us? Will they deign to send their troops, or simply issue their commands through this would-be prince? What did the offer you? How much is the price of Ferelden honor now?"

Lady Gwyn's hound growled at the man who had dared to address his mistress in such a discourteous tone, but Cousland placed her hand upon his head. She raised an eyebrow, and answered Loghain. "Your paranoia has blinded you to the true threat, Loghain Mac Tir." Her voice was calm but clear, and loud enough to carry through the entire chamber of the Landsmeet. "It is not the Orlesians we need fear now, but the darkspawn devouring our lands."

There were murmurs of support all around the hall. Bolstered by the change in the wind, I raised my voice. "There are enough refugees in my bannorn to make that abundantly clear."

Wulff spoke directly to Loghain for the first time. "The south is fallen, Loghain! Will you let darkspawn take the whole country for fear of Orlais?"

The mood in the hall had begun to shift. I felt it. Eamon felt it—across the hall, he was standing straighter, his face considerably less worried. And Loghain felt it, too. "The Blight is indeed real, Wulff. But do we need Grey Wardens to fight it?" I folded my arms. Loghain had moderated his earlier mocking tone quite a bit now. "They claim that they alone can end the Blight," Loghain continued, "Yet they failed spectacularly against the darkspawn at Ostagar, and they ask to bring with them four legions of chevaliers. And once we open our borders to the chevaliers, can we really expect them to simply return from whence they came?"

A few older nobles murmured their agreement, but Lady Gwyn's response was immediate. "Of course, if Ferelden falls to the darkspawn, the Orlesians will no longer desire to reconquer our lands, so by all means, let us keep them out!" Now her tone was mocking, every word dripping with scorn and anger, but it hardened then into cold seriousness. "But you are doing a fine job of destroying order in our kingdom even were the darkspawn not upon our doorstep, ser. You allowed Rendon Howe to imprison and torture innocents in his dungeon, merely for the crime of _knowing_ those who testified against your actions at Ostagar."

I opened my mouth, but Sighard was already speaking. "The Warden speaks truly! My son was taken under cover of night. The things done to him . . . some of them are beyond any healer's skill."

I had not known of this—Cousland kept her counsel well. I was not the only one surprised by Sighard's testimony. "Oswyn?" Elise murmured. "The boy's been missing for weeks. Is it true? He was in Howe's dungeons? Howe has been in the teyrn's confidence lately. Has he been his jailer?"

She had not heard of Howe's death, then. Many had not. He would not be mourned, I thought. He was an odious man. No one had truly believed what he said about the Couslands' treachery—too many unpleasant things had happened to Howe's rivals in the past. I had also heard he cheated his servants.

I shrugged off Elise's question. While I was sorry for Sighard's son, in truth, I was far more interested in the fact that I was apparently not the only one supporting the Wardens here today, and in the fact that the teyrn looked nervous again. He did not wish to discuss the things he hid in the arl of Denerim's dungeons. He paced in a circle. "Howe was responsible for himself," he said at last. "He will answer to the Maker for any wrongs committed in this life. As must we all."

"Snake," I muttered. "He used Howe to avoid liability for his crimes."

Loghain had rallied, though. "But you know that," he accused Lady Gwyn. "You were the one who murdered him. Whatever Howe may have done, he should have been brought before the seneschal. There is no justice in butchering a man in his home."

Of course, this accusation sent up a new outcry, as this was news to so many. Even though I didn't know the whole story, however, I knew there was more to it than Loghain had said, and I held my peace. For her part, Cousland did not even flinch. Her clear mezzo climbed above the clamor. "In fact, I couldn't agree with you more," she replied. "There was no justice when Howe and his men slaughtered my father, my mother, my brother's wife and young son, and all our household in the night months ago—as I informed you at Ostagar. For that alone he should have been put to death."

More talk, more speculation. " _Howe_ killed the Couslands?" Elise asked me.

"Why has no one heard of this?" Wulff seconded. "If Howe murdered the Couslands, the girl should have sought the king's justice."

"You think she did not?" I answered. "She told Loghain at Ostagar—do you think she did not tell the king? The poor girl must have told everyone she could of what had happened to her family. But King Cailan died, and Loghain has done nothing."

Wulff opened his mouth, but I shook my head and gestured at Lady Gwyn. She was still talking. "Rendon Howe deserved to die for murdering my family." She paused. "That is not why I killed him. But we are not here to discuss any crimes I may have committed but to inform the Landsmeet of yours. So tell me this: If it is such a dishonor to kill a man in his home, why did you send a blood mage to poison Arl Eamon?"

Loghain scoffed. "I assure you, Warden, if I were going to send someone, it would be my own soldiers. I would not trust to the discretion of an apostate."

Across the gallery, Eamon went stiff with rage, and I raised my voice once more. Loghain Mac Tir would stand before the Landsmeet and lie? "Indeed?" I challenged him. "My brother tells a very different tale. He says you snatched a blood mage from the Chantry's justice. Coincidence?"

A chill swept through the hall, and the Revered Mother of the Denerim Chantry's voice rang out like thunder. "Do not think the Chantry will overlook this, Teyrn Loghain. Interference in a templar's sacred duties is an offense against the Maker."

Loghain stepped back. He would make no further attempts to deny it, I could see, and my stomach twisted in vicious satisfaction. I was prepared to send a man to fetch Irminric to testify if it had been needed. It seemed that it would not be. The hall had gone nearly silent, so I could hear Loghain's gauntlets squeal as he clenched his fists. I saw a tic jumping in his jaw. We had backed him into a pretty little corner, and he knew it.

"Whatever I have done I will answer for later," he said finally. "At the moment, I wish to know what this Warden has done with my daughter."

Cousland was unfazed. "You mean after she contacted me, afraid for her life, from where she had been placed under house arrest at Rendon Howe's estate?"

"Ah. Thus the arl's death," Wulff realized, and there were similar exclamations of clarity all around the hall. "Howe did not give up his charge willingly."

"But where is Anora now?" I asked Wulff.

Loghain stabbed a furious finger at Lady Gwyn. "You took my daughter—our queen—by force, killing her guards in the process. What arts have you employed to keep her? Does she even still live?"

The doors of the Landsmeet Chamber swung open again, this time so wide that they hit the wall. Everyone turned, and I relaxed. Queen Anora had always liked to make an entrance. As the light from the lamps and the windows fell upon her golden hair, I had to confess to hating her a little. They called her the most beautiful woman in the world, and I had never seen another to put lie to the legend. Never in my life had I been as beautiful as the queen, nor could I ever hope to be, and she was immaculately gowned to address the Landsmeet as well. She paused for the best effect, then declared, "I believe I can speak for myself." She strode into the hall. "Lords and ladies of Ferelden, hear me! This Warden has slandered and defamed Ferelden's greatest hero in a bid to put an imposter on Maric's throne." She shot a contemptuous glance at Alistair.

"Huh, if he's an imposter, the Maker never created three men more alike," Wulff remarked, unconvinced. I heard his skepticism echoed around the room. Wulff gestured at Alistair, speaking only to me and to Elise. "The question isn't whether or not he's Maric's son, but whether or not he can be a good king. They don't raise bastards to rule. Boy's yet to say a word."

Even as Wulff said it, though, Alistair's lips moved. "Hush!" I hissed, but it was too late. We'd missed it. At any rate, it seemed as though his comment had only been addressed to his companions, because I saw no one else reacting.

"It has become clear to me, Warden," Anora continued, speaking directly to Cousland, "that the true threat to this nation is you. I offered you a chance to ally with me for the good of this nation, and you refused it."

That was interesting. I considered the two women facing one another on the floor. Cousland seemed calm, but Anora was practically bristling with hatred. Curious. Loghain's fear was obviously that the Wardens would open the gates of the nation again to conquest by Orlais, but the queen's animosity for Bryce's daughter seemed much more personal. And as I thought about it, I could see why.

Anora was the queen now, but she'd begun as the daughter of a soldier and a cabinetmaker, while Gwyn Cousland was the closest thing Ferelden had to a princess. Gwyn Cousland was admittedly far from possessing Anora's legendary beauty—but she somehow managed to be every bit as striking. Ten years Anora's junior for one thing—in the first bloom of youth as was her candidate for the throne—Cousland seemed to represent the future as Anora represented the past. She was dark where Anora was fair, tall for a woman, lean, glowing with health, commanding, and charismatic. And while Anora had chosen to wear her finest clothes to address the Landsmeet, Lady Gwyn had come before us all in her armor. It was impossible to see her without recognizing that she had been on the front lines in the cold, harsh wilderness, raising an army against the Blight while Anora lived in the palace in Denerim, leaving the business of ruling to her father. In a time of Blight, Anora Mac Tir Theirin found her decorative beauty challenged with Cousland's powerful ferocity, her encroaching age challenged with Cousland's vibrant youth, her humble origins challenged with Cousland's incomparable high birth. I almost laughed aloud. No wonder she hated the girl. Lady Gwyn had refused to ally with her, and Anora had to be terrified.

But when Gwyn answered the queen's accusations, her tone was surprisingly gentle at first. "I do not believe it _is_ in the best interests of this nation to support your rule, Anora," she says. "As your regent, Loghain Mac Tir has enacted atrocities against the Ferelden people, out of either gross negligence or criminal paranoia."

"Hmph," Wulff muttered. "Doesn't say he did any of it out of malice. More grace than _he_ gave _her._ "

But it was the only concession Lady Gwyn made. Her tone hardened again as she began her summary arguments. "He has allowed innocent citizens to be imprisoned and tortured by his allies. He has freed maleficar to serve as his assassins against Ferelden nobility. He has sold Ferelden elves into slavery in Tevinter."

"No!" I was not alone in my outrage. Though many of us had heard of unrest in the alienage, we had never heard whispers of _slaving._ Slavery was an evil abolished in Ferelden by Andraste herself centuries ago. The despicable practice had been outlawed in Ferelden ever since.

But Loghain had gone chalk white. His lips had gone thin, and the truth of it was plain for all to see. Elise's voice sounded out over the hall. "Curse him, it's true! Look at him! It's true!"

Lady Gwyn looked around the hall. Her smile was cold and hard and angry. "Did I not mention that?" she asked. She pulled a document from the inside of her glove and raised it for all to see. "I have papers proving Loghain allowed Tevinter slavers to kidnap Ferelden elves from the Denerim alienage to help fund his armies." She gestured at the senechal's servant, on the floor, and he came forward to take the papers to his master for review. None of us had any doubt they were genuine. "Times are desperate indeed," Gwyn said, "But I do not think it is ever necessary to sell our souls and become an abomination in the Maker's sight.

"Anora, you have allowed all this," she concluded, addressing the queen once again. "You are queen, yet you have allowed your regent to do this. I am sorry, but I cannot support a monarch who could allow such things. Not when there is another heir."

Anora seethed. I realized Gwyn had effectively cut her legs from under her. Still more astonishing was the realization that Cousland was right. I had always considered Anora a good monarch, but since Cailan's death, she truly had not been. It had been her responsibility as queen to stop her father long before he had gone this far. By supporting him, she had enabled every evil he had done.

"I will not allow you to destroy the throne Cailan and I have held," Anora began, but Loghain cut her off. She was too angry. For all she was his daughter, he could see that much. By this point, Anora's animosity for Gwyn Cousland was hurting them more than it helped, revealing how tightly she clung to power, not the good of Ferelden.

Loghain redirected the Landsmeet's attention back to Alistair. As much as he had avoided it previously, now it was his best course of action. "You would displace our queen with this man," he demanded. "Who can say he will rule this nation well? We know nothing of him save that he may have royal blood. For five years Anora has been queen, and proven herself worthy of the Theirin name. She can lead our people through this crisis, and I can lead her armies."

It was a weak argument—that despite all he had done, he was yet more capable than his challenger—but it was the best argument left to him, I knew. "My lords and ladies of the Landsmeet," Loghain continued, bringing his claim to its conclusion. "Our land has been threatened before. It's been invaded, and lost, and won times beyond counting. We Fereldens have proven that we will never be truly conquered so long as we are united. We must not let ourselves be divided now. Stand with me, and we shall defeat even the Blight itself."

Both sides had made their case, and now it was time for the vote. Looking around the hall, I smiled, because this was a far different room than it had been mere minutes before. Gwyn Cousland stood calmly with her hound and her mage beside Alistair Theirin, and there was not a trace of uncertainty on her face.

As the votes were cast, I knew everyone voted for a different reason. Some like Elise's husband Yoren voted for tradition—because it had always been the role of Wardens to defeat the Blight, and Loghain would prohibit them from doing so. Others voted out of loyalty to the crown, upholding the claim of Maric's son over the claims of those that were only related by marriage, even if Alistair was born a bastard. I felt a few voted to support Lady Gwyn, the last-known survivor of the noblest house in Ferelden. I cast my own vote because I could not conscience leaving Loghain in power after what he had done, or Anora, after she had given him the power to do it. Some, like Arl Wulff, were not so confident in their votes for the Wardens. And some remained loyal to Loghain, convinced that whatever he had done, he had a better chance of defeating the Blight than two such young Wardens, the last of their Order, and not even two years in its service.

Still, when the tally was taken, the vote was overwhelmingly against Loghain Mac Tir remaining in power, overwhelming in its support for Cousland and the Wardens against the Blight and Alistair Theirin for the throne.

Lady Gwyn addressed Loghain according to ancient tradition. "Loghain Mac Tir, the Landsmeet is against you. Step down gracefully."

As I had anticipated, though, Loghain raised his fist, and his men all around the room put hands to swords and arrows to bowstring. I signaled my guard again. "Traitors!" Loghain bellowed. "Which of you stood against the Orlesian emperor when his troops flattened your fields and raped your wives?" He rounded on Eamon. "You fought with us once, Eamon. You cared about this land once. Before you got too old and fat and content to even see what you risk. None of you deserve a say in what happens here! None of you have spilled blood for this land the way I have! How dare you judge me?"

My guard stepped forward to stand between me and Loghain's men. I loosened my own daggers from their sheaths, but before battle broke out, Lady Gwyn bounded forward into the line of fire and cried, "Loghain! You yourself have said we cannot be divided now! If you will not submit to the judgment of the Landsmeet, then consent to venture yourself in an honorable duel to oppose it, but let there be no more Ferelden blood shed over this today. Stand down your men!"

Admiration and approval rippled through the hall—along with shame. If battle broke out here in the chamber of the Landsmeet, it would have shattered our laws under the club of barbarian rule. Cousland's suggestion would give Loghain the dignity of one final chance to win his case through the strength of his arm, and would enable all of us to avoid warfare in the hall of peace. She had risked her own life, springing in the path of any violence, to give us all this chance. "She's like the Rebel Queen," Elise said, and I could not help but agree. At this moment, Cousland did put me in mind of Maric's legendary mother, as well as other Ferelden heroes of old. I was very glad I had offered Waking Sea's support to her in retaking Highever. Even if Loghain won his case, I thought, the impression Cousland had made here today would not soon fade.

Loghain seemed to realize it—that even if he won, he had lost. There would be no ruling the kingdom after this—Loghain Mac Tir would be faced with open rebellion the rest of his life. He sighed. "Then let us end this," he said heavily. "I suppose we both knew it would come to this. A man is made by the quality of his enemies. Maric told me that once. I wonder if it's more a compliment to you or me. Enough." He faced the gallery. "Let the Landsmeet declare the terms of the duel."

At first, I wondered why he seemed to be asking me, then I realized that of course, Arl Eamon could not speak in this. It was his course of action that was the cause of the dispute. But I did know the old laws as well as Eamon. My father had made sure of that before he died. "It shall be fought according to tradition," I said. "A test of arms in single combat until one party yields, and we who are assembled will abide by the outcome."

I saw my own reluctance reflected on the faces around the hall. It did not feel like justice—what warrior could hope to win a duel against Loghain Mac Tir? It would have been better if Loghain had chosen to abide by the decision of the Landsmeet. But better an honorable duel than that open war should break out.

Loghain spread his arms, a little amusement playing around his mouth. "Will you face me yourself, or have you a champion?" he asked Cousland.

The reluctance of the lords and the ladies of the Landsmeet flared into anger at his satisfied tone. "He challenges her?" Wulff demanded, voicing the sentiments of almost all of us. "Look at her! Simple mail, longbow—she's a ranged fighter, not a duelist! She doesn't stand a chance!"

But Gwyn simply smiled. She seemed even more amused by Loghain's assumption that they would fight than he did. "You forget, ser," she said mildly. "You began your discourse with me, but _I_ am not your challenger today."

Wulff let out a single, dry chuckle as all the amusement left Loghain's face. "Dear Maker, she's not, is she? It's the bastard, isn't it?"

The entire Landsmeet looked over at Lady Gwyn's candidate for the throne, and this time, instead of noting his resemblance to King Maric and King Cailan, we saw his heavy plate, his sword and shield. Unlike Cousland, he was equipped for heavy, face-to-face engagement, and he appeared very close to Loghain's match in height and weight. " _That's_ a different story," Wulff said. "He's young," he admitted, "But that could work for or against him."

Cousland bowed to her fellow Warden. "I believe Alistair Theirin is well able to uphold his claim against you on the strength of his own arm," she told Loghain. The hall fell deadly silent, watching the two would-be combatants.

Alistair was the first to speak, and I heard his voice crisp and clear for the first time. "More than able. Eager." His voice was tight with long-suppressed anger and excitement, and now I saw how his eyes blazed. I recalled that report said Alistair was the senior Warden of the two of them—that the Lady Gwyn had only just been recruited to the Wardens when Ostagar fell. Alistair had known the Wardens that Loghain had betrayed at Ostagar. And whether Alistair had known Cailan or not, it was also Loghain's desertion that had killed his brother.

Alistair stepped forward, stripped off his gauntlet, and hurled it at Loghain's feet. The clatter as the mail hit the stone floor reverberated through the rafters. A murmur of approval went up through the chamber of the Landsmeet, but it was touched with a tinge of regret. It was a brave challenge, boldly given, but though everyone knew that it was better for Alistair to fight Loghain than it was for the Lady Gwyn to fight him, there was still no one that believed Alistair could win.

Still, he was so young, so like his father and brother, that it was a shame, and more shame that his death would mean Loghain would escape punishment for his crimes, at least for the moment. We all knew that when Alistair was defeated, Loghain would not spare his life. There was no way for him to do so.

Loghain stooped to pick up the gauntlet, passed it back to Alistair. "Very well," he agreed gravely. At the very least, he would give the challenge the honor it was due, I saw with some small, bitter satisfaction. "Then let us test the mettle of our would-be king. Prepare yourself."

The men and women below cleared the area before the dais, a piece of floor almost twenty feet square for the combatants to fight in. A squire brought Loghain his sword and shield. Alistair had already drawn his sword. The two men circled, gauging defense, assessing the threat each posed to the other, potential weaknesses.

They engaged! Loghain rushed Alistair with his shield, knocking the youth a dizzying blow. Alistair staggered back. Loghain raised his sword to bring it smashing down on his opponent's head, and Elise grabbed my arm. I covered her hand with my own. Was it possible that Alistair would be killed so quickly?

No—he caught the strike on the edge of his shield and forced Loghain back, following up with a side slice toward Loghain's midsection. Loghain leapt back.

They engaged again. The clashing of metal on metal was deafening, ringing out again and again through the hall. A gasp went up, Cousland's hound let out a savage bark, and the Lady Gwyn grabbed his collar to hold him back from coming to Alistair's aid. "What is it? I missed it! What's happened?" Elise demanded, clutching at me.

"Loghain's got him in the knee—right between cuisse and poleyn. First blood," Wulff told her.

He spoke truly—Loghain's sword was stained red, and Alistair stumbled before regaining his footing. I judged the weight he put on his leg. "Thank the Maker, it doesn't look serious."

"He is limping, though," Elise observed. "Oh, can he put up a proper fight at all, hurt like that?"

The lines of the young prince's body, the set of his jaw answered the question well enough for me. "He's going to try. Look!" The combatants had engaged again, and Alistair was not giving way. He was giving as good as he was getting. I gnawed my lip, wondering if either would gain the advantage again at all, but then Loghain lunged, and staggered, and crashed to the ground in a heap.

"Slipped in his enemy's blood! It's over!" I exulted. Then I frowned, realizing my triumph was premature. As Loghain had fallen, Alistair had not rushed upon him to end it. Instead, he stood back, sword ready, waiting for Loghain to climb to his feet again.

The hall fell silent. Then someone clapped, then another. The first scattered cheers went up from the onlookers. "Good man, Warden!"

"Up Theirin!"

Wulff approved as well, I could tell. He had joined the applause with reluctant respect. "That Alistair's a man of honor," he told me and Elise. "He could have won then. No one would have blamed him."

Loghain had climbed to his feet again. The two reengaged once more. This time, though, it was obvious that something was different. It was as if the approval of the Landsmeet had given Alistair new strength. The might of Loghain's blows had not diminished. Each resounded through the hall like a thunderclap. But Alistair's defense never faltered, and Loghain did not land another stroke. The teryn could not get to him. Again and again his sword clashed uselessly on Alistair's shield, until he was red and breathing heavily. I could see the frustration upon his face, and he grunted with exertion as he hacked at his enemy in vain.

Alistair's blows were not as mighty or as frequent, but I began to notice that Loghain often parried them with his sword, because many of them were slipping past his shield.

Slowly, Elise noticed as well. "He—he's better," she murmured. "He's better, isn't he?"

I understood her incredulity. It defied reason that anyone could be _better_ than Loghain Mac Tir, but everyone was starting to see it. I could feel the hope and amazement building in the hall. "His defense is, at least," Wulff said after a moment. "The boy makes blasted good use of his shield. Making Mac Tir work for it. Every stroke, he's wearing himself out. Oh!"

"I saw!" I cheered, clapping wildly. Loghain had attempted to lock with Alistair, to force him back, but Alistair had caught his shield with Loghain's and wrenched it. Now Loghain's shield arm hung oddly at his side, providing only the most basic defense. "Oh, well fought!"

"It's no good," Elise warned. "He's injured, but he's not wounded, and the teyrn can do more damage with the sword anyway."

And indeed, the next time Loghain fell to with Alistair, he succeeded in locking blades with his opponent, forced Alistair down and back. The young man fell to his knees. A groan ripped through the air as he landed where Loghain had wounded him. I tasted blood, to find I had bitten my lip clear through. Loghain levered his useless shield arm down on Alistair, using its weight to hold him down as he brought his sword up for the death blow—

Too slow! Eamon knew what would happen a second before it did, and he shouted as Alistair struck out with the pommel of his sword. It hit Loghain's knee with such force that Loghain staggered back. Alistair caught Loghain's now-wild blow on his shield again, forced the blade away, and while Loghain was still trying to regain his balance, Alistair had seized Loghain's shield arm and used it to climb to his feet.

He followed up at once, striking Loghain in the face with his heavy shield, knocking him even further off balance. Blood spurted over the griffon sigil—and Alistair was not done yet. He lunged, and his blade found the space between cuirass and spaulder. There was a horrible shriek of tearing armor, and when the men disengaged, Alistair's sword was as red as Loghain's. Loghain's nose was broken. Blood streamed down his face, and there was a long, ugly, jagged rip in his armor beneath his armpit.

The Landsmeet cheered for its chosen champion. "Well struck!"

"Theirin!"

"The Grey Wardens!"

As Loghain's bloody face contorted, I wondered which hurt him more, the wounds Maric's bastard had inflicted, or that the people were glad of them. But Loghain Mac Tir had lost the love of Ferelden through his own misguided actions, and it was right for us to support the Warden now, Maric's son and Cailan's brother. Loghain shouted and rushed Alistair one last time, but his shield arm was useless, sprained or even dislocated. Blood ran into his mouth. I did not think he could breathe through his nose, and it was unclear whether or not Alistair's stroke had torn his side as badly as it had his armor. Loghain's stroke was wild, wide to begin with, and Alistair sidestepped it almost contemptuously, and stabbed down into the back of Loghain's calf.

Loghain cried out in pain and aimed one last, desperate strike at Alistair's neck. Alistair deflected it with his shield, turned, stepped around Loghain, and in the same movement thrust at the same place in Loghain's armor he had torn open previously. His blade bit deep. Anora gasped. The rest of the hall fell silent as Loghain collapsed to his knees.

The teyrn of Gwaren threw away his sword and shield. He clutched his side, and the blood gushing from the second wound Alistair dealt him coated his silver gauntlets red in moments. "Yield," he panted. Alistair waited to hear his opponent's final words.

It did not please me as much as I had thought to see Loghain Mac Tir beaten, bleeding on his knees. But amazingly, Loghain smiled. "So . . . there is some of Maric in you after all," he rasped, speaking to Alistair at last. "Good." He bowed his head.

Alistair turned his sword over in his hand, gazing down at the teyrn of Gwaren, the former hero of Ferelden. "Forget Maric," he said quietly. "This is for Duncan."

The late Lord Commander of the Grey Wardens, I recalled, and a chill swept over me and the entire crowd. As brief and as low as Alistair's reply was, nevertheless we all knew we had just heard Loghain's sentence. Anora rushed forward. "Wait!"

Alistair's sword flashed out, heedless of her outcry, and Loghain's head fell and rolled away from the body. Anora gasped as the blood spattered her face and gown and the corpse sagged to the floor. "No," she whispered. Her face crumpled, and she fell to her knees beside her father's body, gazing at his head through tear-filled eyes, as if she could reattach it.

I swallowed. Anora's quiet sobs were the only sounds in the hall. Alistair's chest rose and fell as he panted with exertion, and his face was fierce, without a shadow of regret. He had judged swiftly, harshly. But we all knew that what we had witnessed here today was no more and no less than the king's justice.

The silence was so complete that Lady Gwyn's footsteps sounded as loudly as Alistair's blows as she crossed the floor. She walked right past Loghain's body to stand at Alistair's side. "The king is dead, and justice has been done against his killer, proven in honorable combat," she shouted. "Does the Landsmeet acknowledge this?"

I remembered I had taken the responsibility of speaking for the Landsmeet, but my mouth was dry as I replied, "So acknowledged."

"Long live the king!" Lady Gwyn cried.

"Long live the king!" The response was ritual, but shock was still the preeminent feeling through the hall. No one could believe what lay before us—Loghain Mac Tir dead, by Alistair's hand. I blinked, coming back to myself as Gwyn Cousland knelt in the blood at his feet and clasped her hands in front of her.

"Allow me to be the first to swear my loyalty this day," she said. She had quieted her tone again, but she still made certain her voice carried to everyone in the hall. "I, Gwyn Cousland, daughter to Bryce and Eleanor, teryn and teyrna of Highever, hereby pledge my fealty and give my oath. Alistair Theirin, my arm is yours, my strength and service. Andraste as my witness, if by my life or death I may serve you, my king, so let it be."

Something clutched and released in my heart. Every word of Cousland's oath rang with passion and sincerity. If I were truly honest with myself, I did not know Alistair. I had cast my vote against Loghain. But Gwyn Cousland's love for and faith in the man was as clear as day and burned as hot and bright as a star. By her oath, she was encouraging all of us that we had made the right decision, electing Maric's son as our king, and I had not realized how much I had needed that encouragement until now. The sighs and softened expressions all around the room indicated I was far from the only one moved and reassured by Gwyn's earnest, ardent pledge.

Alistair smiled down at the woman at his feet. He shook his head once, fondly, then took her hands in both of his, as was tradition. "And I am honored to accept your oath, my lady, and return mine in turn to repay your loyalty with all the care such a precious trust merits." Although, he, too, let his voice carry, somehow he also managed to convey the impression that he and the Lady Gwyn are the only two people in the room. "You'll forgive me when I mess it up, though, won't you?"

It was perfect—the slight touch of levity to counterbalance the solemnity of the moment, without losing an iota of Gwyn's sincerity in returning her pledge. Lady Gwyn allowed her king to help her to her feet, but he retained her hands as she stood. "Only if you forgive me," she smiled. Elise glanced at me, checking to see if I noted the intimacy there seemed to be between the two of them—the deep esteem and friendship. I did. It was true that they had traveled a very long road together, and it was good to see that there was obviously so much love and trust between Lady Gwyn and our new king, that he was the kind of man that appreciated Bryce Cousland's daughter for all she was, of whom Bryce Cousland's daughter would approve so totally without reservation.

"Also, your Highness," she continued, "I would like to add on behalf of the Grey Wardens that I pledge our service and all the forces we have gathered together to you and to the Ferelden people in the interests of ending this Blight."

"Even better," Alistair said. "Be a bit difficult to fight the Blight with just you, wouldn't it?" Laughter rippled through the crowd this time, and Cousland's hound barked happily. "I accept," Alistair added, releasing Gwyn's hands at last.

I saw that Eamon had come down from the gallery to join them. "So it is decided," he announced, obviously well pleased with the comportment of his former charge—as well he should be. "Anora?" He signaled a guard, and the guard walked over to Anora and raised her from her father's side. Her tears were gone by now, and breast heaved and her eyes blazed as she stood before her father's killer, Eamon, and Gwyn Cousland, her gown stained with Loghain's blood.

"Anora," Eamon repeated, brushing off the hatred in her eyes. "The Landsmeet has decided against you. You must now swear fealty to our king and relinquish all claim to the throne for yourself and your heirs."

I sighed. Eamon was probably the last person that could get Anora to surrender—the reason was beyond me, but the two had always hated one another. And one look at Anora was enough to see that she had no intention of kneeling now. "If you think I will swear that oath, Eamon, you know nothing of me," she snarled.

"She has to," Wulff muttered. "She'll make them kill her!"

And indeed, Gwyn had stepped toward the queen, brow knit in concern. "Anora, don't make this harder for yourself than it needs to be," she pleaded urgently. "Right now, the only thing we think you're guilty of is loving your father too much. Because of that, you are not a good queen, but you don't have to be a traitor."

Anora's arm swung out in a gesture of furious denial. "I will not swear fealty to this bastard _boy_!" she spat.

"Andraste, they'll _have_ to kill her!" Elise breathed. I looked down unhappily. No one would be pleased if Anora died. Loghain's guilt was beyond dispute, but Anora had been a good queen before Cailan's death. She had allowed what he had done, but it had not been proven that she was complicit in any of his wrongdoings from Ostagar onward. Yet if she opposed Alistair now it _would_ be treason—a capital offense.

Naturally, Eamon did not shrink from this. "We cannot leave Ferelden in a state of civil war," he said grimly. "We must have unity. If she will not swear fealty to you, Alistair, and renounce her claim to the throne, she is a threat to us all."

Cousland frowned, and her eyes flashed as she shot a sideways glance at Eamon, but Alistair shook his head. "Put her in the tower for now," he said. "If I fall against the Blight, she can have her throne. If not . . . then we'll see."

Anora was surprised, as indeed, many seemed to be. "You would give me a chance or the throne after all of this?" she asked.

"I said _if_ I fall," Alistair repeated, with some emphasis. "If I fall, the throne falls to you. I won't kill you while there's a chance that can happen. Somebody has to treat this Blight seriously."

So Anora might die when the Blight was beaten, but for now, she was to be Alistair's heir. Clean, if not ideal. I wondered that Cailan had not been so plain before he had gone to Ostagar. If he had proclaimed an heir, a great deal of this trouble could have all been avoided. Anora seemed to respect the decision, too. "That is uncharacteristically wise of you," she mused.

Lady Gwyn bristled at the backhanded nature of the former queen's compliment, but Alistair brushed it off with a shrug. "Yes, well, don't let it get around. I have a reputation." He looked at the guard. "Take her away. And him, too," he added, gesturing at two servants and Loghain, on the floor. "Get the body out of here. We'll have a proper burial later. He was a hero once."

The servants nodded and moved to take Loghain's corpse away, and Anora was marched from the hall. All around I heard sounds of agreement, approval, but the Landsmeet shifted, uncertain of what would come next.

"Your Highness, would you address the Landsmeet?" Of course, Eamon did not address Alistair as 'Your Majesty' yet, nor had Cousland. That title would have to wait for a proper coronation.

Gwyn did not react to Eamon's suggestion this time; it was Alistair's place as the chosen king to conclude the Landsmeet, but Alistair himself started. Not diffident so much as completely unaccustomed to power or responsibility of any kind, I thought. "Oh . . . that would be me," he said. "Right." He stood up straight, rolled his shoulders, and flushed, but when he spoke, his voice was steady. "Um . . . I never knew him, but from all I've heard of my father, what defined him was his commitment to protecting this land," he said. "I may be Maric's son, but I am also a Grey Warden. I took an oath: I swore I would stand and fight the darkspawn, no matter the cost to myself." He shifted. "I cannot break that oath just to wear the crown. I have to go with my fellow Warden to face the Blight. When the Blight is over, I'll come back and take up my duties, whatever they are . . . as king. Until then, I'm naming Arl Eamon my regent."

This was hardly a surprise—Eamon had raised the boy, at least for the time. Alistair had more familiarity with Eamon than anyone else, and Eamon had been the one to put him forth as king. Eamon was no more surprised than anyone else, but he bowed graciously enough. "Then I can do Maric's memory no less honor than you do. I accept. And may the Maker bless your efforts against the darkspawn."

But beside me, Elise frowned. "It's too bad he's leaving," she said.

"He knows his priorities," Wulff growled. "Maric's bastard will be king of no one and nothing if the darkspawn tear it all to the ground."

"Yes, but they need to see him," Elise replied, gesturing at Alistair. "The people need to know he's a good one."

I sighed. "He couldn't be if he stayed here, cousin. Wulff is right. It will be our task to tell the people what we have seen here." I nodded at Gwyn. "Like her. Bear witness to what we now know of him and give our young king all our support."

Elise subsided. She knew we were right, but as she fell quiet, I reflected that my cousin had a point as well. The people everywhere were frightened. It would do them good to come to know our new king as we had done in the Landsmeet today: Maric's son and Cailan's brother, who had struck down Loghain with his own hand in retribution for the teyrn of Gwaren's crimes, but had had the wisdom to show mercy when Anora opposed him. Alistair had inspired the fealty of more than Gwyn Cousland with his actions here today, I knew, and he had taken up his authority with humor and humility—only to leave us just as we had begun to love him.

Alistair caught the melancholy of the crowd, and he smiled to reassure us all. "My fellow Grey Warden will, I hope, take Loghain's place as the leader of my armies?"

"I will," Lady Gwyn replied at once. Like Eamon, she had expected to be appointed to this position.

"And should we prevail," Alistair added, "We will return, and I hope this hall will see Gwyn Cousland, my first knight and the leader of my armies against the Blight, take a new position—as my wife and my partner on the throne."

There was another ripple of amazement through the hall, tinged with pleasure and delight. "Andraste, they're betrothed!" Elise exclaimed.

Wulff chuckled. "A master stroke," he remarked. "Marrying the bastard to the teyrn's daughter. She'll make up for what _he_ doesn't know, starting out. This has Eamon written all over it. Huh. At least both of them seem like they have some spine. Won't let Guerrin run them. And I guess it gives the country neatly over to the Wardens. If this weren't the middle of a Blight . . ."

It sounded cynical, but I could see where Wulff might get that idea. Still . . . "Do you really think this mere political maneuver?" I asked. "You saw the same thing I saw down there. She loves him." I gestured down at the young couple, as the way Alistair stood, the pride in his face as he looked at the Lady Gwyn. "And it's plain as plain the young man adores her."

Wulff grunted, but his face softened. "Hard not to," he conceded. "Cousland's girl. Not a lot of women like her in the world. Every bit of Eleanor's class, but she's her father's daughter. I guess she'll do pretty well for the boy. It's too bad for Highever, though. Has anyone heard from her brother?"

He had a point there, too, I realized sadly. What would become of Highever? If Gwyn was to be queen, she could not hope to rule her teyrnir, too. If Fergus Cousland had died, she might have just renounced all claim to her family's traditional holding. It truly put the depth of her love for our young king in perspective. "No," I replied.

Wulff was silent for a moment as we both considered what might have happened in Highever, what might be going on this very second. "Well," he said at last. "It won't be the first holding lost to this damned Blight, nor the first family." His face was like carven wood. He closed his eyes, and I had to look away from his grief. Wulff's lands, his people, and his legacy had all been lost to the darkspawn. In comparison to that, I thought, what had happened here today must surely seem a paltry thing.

Gwyn had answered Alistair, some light and witty remark meant to reassure the Landsmeet that she did not intend what Wulff had feared—that the Grey Wardens should take over the sovereignty of Ferelden—and she would of course resign her former titles when she took up the new one. Of course, this was all very well and good, but it occurred to me to wonder what would become of the Order in Ferelden if both Gwyn _and_ Alistair resigned their places in it after the Blight. There was no right decision here, no easy solution.

"Well, it ought to be fun trying to find someone else to do the job," Alistair observed, right in line with my own thoughts. But he swept a bow, concluding the Landsmeet. "In any event, shall we finish this thing together?" he asked Gwyn.

Gwyn returned his bow, in the same exaggerated style. "It will be my honor, my king."

They did well together, I thought. Strong, then empathetic and merciful. Formal, then flippant. Each of them played off the other like they were partners in a dance. She was charismatic, persuasive, and passionate; he was strong and gracious, and his self-conscious humility, tinged with humor, would do more to win the hearts of the people for him than almost anything else. Both spoke with a sincerity and a conviction that it seemed I had not heard in Denerim in an age. I could name the quality, if I liked, I thought. They were _good_ , both of them, to their very souls. King Alistair Theirin and Queen Gwyn, I decided. Certainly we could do worse—and had, too.

"Everyone, get ready to march," Alistair called, in a resounding voice. "It's going to take all of Ferelden's strength to survive this Blight. But we will face it. And we'll defeat it." He nodded, and the Landsmeet was dismissed. Lords and ladies, servants and guardsmen all began to make their preparations. The civil war was done, the new king and his queen had been chosen. All that remained was the war outside our doorstep. The war with the darkspawn.

* * *

 **A/N: Because I like to acknowledge whenever I borrow inspiration or direction from other works, let me say here that I based Alistair and Loghain's duel quite heavily on Peter's duel with Miraz in C.S. Lewis's** _ **Prince Caspian.**_ **As ever, thanks to Jack for his amazing work on Narnia. Elise is an original character, designed to offer a more compassionate counterpoint to the cynical Wulff and the experienced Alfstanna.**

 **Review if you have something to say,**

 **LMS**


	12. The Counteroffer

xii.

The Counteroffer

GWYN

I had asked all the necessary questions, but otherwise declined to comment as Morrigan made her dark proposal. In fact, I was very careful to keep my face as blank as possible, to give her nothing as to what I truly thought of it. In truth, so many revelations in such a short space had left me numb. I was beyond grief, beyond rage, and beyond surprise at anything. I knew it would overcome me later, like a great wave—if there was time for the impact of everything I had learned tonight to hit before I fell. And yet, as Morrigan finished describing her plan, everything came into view with such utter clarity, and I knew what I must do.

When she had done, and I was satisfied as to all the particulars of her offer, I put it to her: "I have a counterproposal. Help me conduct this ritual tonight, conceive this child that will serve as a vessel for the soul of the old god."

Morrigan's eyes widened, and she gave a laugh that was more shock than merriment. "You? You do not have the powers of magic—"

It seemed that I was not beyond anger after all, for I felt the fire of it kindle in me at her attempted denial. "Don't give me that," I snapped. Bad enough Morrigan had hidden from me all this time that a Warden must die to slay the Archdemon. She had seen what passed between Alistair and myself, watched us begin to build a future for Ferelden, and she sought to use it now against us to accomplish her ends. But I would not allow her to lie to me now. "I may not have any magical abilities, but I had a _very_ thorough education. I was particularly interested in magical theory a few years back. My tutors allowed me to indulge my interest."

Morrigan's mouth snapped closed, and I saw her stiffen slightly. Her regard sharpened, and I met her gaze without flinching. She had known me long enough to be certain I did not bluff. "You're describing a fertility ritual," I said coolly. "A sex rite. A woman doesn't need to be a witch to perform such rituals. All she needs is access to a witch. It requires drinking a number of nasty concoctions, does it not? Perhaps with a few incantations said in preparation to ensure conception and prepare the womb." I shrugged, fighting back my blush. What cause had I for shame? Morrigan had certainly been shameless enough as she made her proposal. "The ritual to me sounds akin to our Joining," I added, "which anyone may partake in, no matter their magical gift."

Morrigan's fingers twitched in her lap, and she frowned. This was not going the way she had planned. "In theory, yes," she admitted reluctantly. "But I have been preparing for this for many weeks. To prepare you for the ritual in a matter of hours would be . . . _very_ uncertain. Add to that the taint that also resides within you, and chances of success are extremely low, Gwyn. Would not it be better to allow me to complete the ritual, where success is certain, rather than wasting our time trying to prepare you when it may not work?"

Perhaps she thought such a logical appeal might sway me, but the reminder that Morrigan had been planning this all along did not incline me toward acquiescence with her request. I folded my arms. "Why do you want this child, Morrigan? I have heard you express contempt and dislike for children on many occasions, for Alistair on many more. You do not want a child, far less his. You wish a vessel for the soul of an old god, and the shaping of that vessel, a share in the destiny it may have."

Morrigan was clearly taken aback. She even appeared slightly hurt, but to her credit, she did not deny what I had said outright. "I would love the child, I think," she protested instead. "If 'twere my own."

I raised an eyebrow. "Would you? If it were your own and _Alistair's_ , conceived only out of necessity and fear, with no love and little pleasure taken in the act?"

I imagined myself in Morrigan's place, compelled to use a man I despised, who despised me, to let him inside of me in the most intimate way, obliged to be reminded of the sordid event and the man himself every time I looked at what we had made, wondering, over the years alone raising a child where I had wanted a symbol, if what I had sacrificed was worth what I had gained. I held Morrigan's gaze, and to my great surprise, _she_ blushed this time, and dropped her eyes. I remembered what she had said to Flemeth that first day— _I am not ready_ —and knew both that she had spoken truly then, and that she was no more ready now than she had been then. She put on a brave face, but she was still afraid, reluctant.

"That the child must be Alistair's is unfortunate," Morrigan conceded in a low voice. "Believe me, I will take no joy in lying with your fool of a Templar. That he will be king, too, is a . . . complication I confess I did not foresee. But we are lacking in Grey Wardens, my friend." She gave me a wry, rueful smile. "'Twould have been easier if _you_ had been a man."

It was a paltry jest. Levity had never been Morrigan's strong suit. But I recognized the compliment in Morrigan's words as well. It was irrelevant. I tilted my head. "Perhaps, but I'm not, and my betrothed, the future king of Ferelden, is the only potential father for the child that will result from this ritual. I do not know what destiny you see for this child. I fear it. But I am willing to risk it, aye, even allow you a part in that destiny, _if_ I am the mother of this child, not you."

Morrigan made an impatient gesture. "But it will most likely fail, and then you will die, for well I know that you will not permit Alistair to strike the blow against the Archdemon."

There was nothing to be gained by denying it. My companions had all heard my oath to Alistair, and if they hadn't recognized it at the time, they certainly knew what it had meant by now. "I won't. Riordan will be the first to try to strike the blow. He is alone, only a few months or years away from his Calling, and his duty to the Grey Wardens is uncompromised. Alistair and I split our duty to the Wardens with our duty to the kingdom. We always have. In addition, both of us have decades to live yet should we survive the Blight, decades in which we can do much good. I will not rush to take the blow tomorrow, but if Riordan fails, yes—I will die before I let Alistair sacrifice himself to end the Blight. His life is worth more than mine."

"Why not enact the ritual in a manner that ensures its success, then, and no one need die?" Morrigan asked again. She leaned forward in her eagerness to persuade me. "Not you, not Riordan, not Alistair. What comes if you enact the ritual, and it fails? Then Riordan dies, or you may die, when you could have avoided this by just accepting what I offer?"

Logic again, pragmatism. I had always appreciated it in Morrigan, but she had never understood that sometimes I had a higher allegiance than self-preservation, an even higher allegiance than reason. I leaned forward myself. "Hear me, Morrigan: I do not fear death," I told her, speaking slowly and clearly so every word had its impact. "I will gladly die tomorrow if I can save Ferelden from the Blight and spare to it its king. Alistair will be a far better ruler than anyone suspects, least of all himself. Should I die, he will grieve me, but he will wed another, and the kingdom will be safe from the Blight, and safe from whatever uncertain future you see for your child with the soul of an old god."

Now I had truly offended her. Morrigan's eyes flashed, and she drew back. "I see. You consider me another threat from which you must preserve the land."

"I don't believe you wish _me_ any harm," I admitted. "On the contrary, I believe you sincerely wish to protect me." Still, the charge could not entirely be denied. "But it is true that I am not certain if your intentions for Ferelden and Thedas itself are what I would wish, if they are not something I would wish to avoid."

Morrigan had begun to soften when I told her we were not enemies. Now her mouth twisted again, as if I had just force-fed her a bitter draught, indeed. "So you will not agree to enact this ritual," she concluded angrily.

"Not if you are the one to enact it," I confirmed. "And for more reasons than that I do not wholly trust you with this child with the soul of an old god, or believe that you will love Alistair's child for everything such a child will be. I cannot do it, Morrigan."

She was ice and fire now, absolutely furious. "May I ask why you would rather die than save your life by the means that I offer?" she demanded.

"I am not afraid of you, Morrigan," I informed her, quite coolly. "Alistair will not perjure everything he is and father a bastard he can never see or acknowledge, as he himself was never acknowledged. He will not have to lie with a woman he despises, a woman who despises him, while the woman he loves lies awake and alone in another room aware of what he does, encouraging this betrayal of all he is and all we mean to one another, only because we are too afraid, too selfish to die."

I had not expected this argument to sway Morrigan, so I was unsurprised when her anger did not abate, and all I saw was a flicker of hurt and confusion behind it. I sighed. I reached out and squeezed Morrigan's stiff shoulder, and she flinched away from me. I wondered if she would ever understand. Flemeth had warped Morrigan long ago. Honor and loyalty and love meant nothing in the world of the witch of the wilds. Sometimes it saddened me.

"I have told you before," I finished quietly. "There are worse things than death. The future you propose would poison us, Morrigan. We would live. But live well, happily? We could never be happy knowing we had betrayed ourselves in such a way, with you gone and Alistair's child out of our reach, out of our ken as to what you might plan for the child's future, for the future of Thedas."

Morrigan scoffed. "You would die for love? For principle? You are a fool."

"Perhaps, but consider what may come if you help me," I urged her. "It is not impossible for us to succeed with me conducting the ritual in your place, is it? That is what you implied. Just that it is unlikely. Unlikely, but there is a chance, no?"

"A very small one," Morrigan snapped.

"Then if we do not succeed, and Riordan fails to kill the Archdemon, I die tomorrow as I planned before you came to me tonight." It did not feel real, speaking of my own death so calmly, but these were the arguments that would persuade her. Not the moral arguments, but the ones based upon cold self-interest. "But if we succeed? I live, as you desire. A child with the soul of an old god is born into the world, as you desire. And consider this: you are free. You do not have to raise this child, Alistair's child. You will have guaranteed for yourself mine and Alistair's everlasting gratitude and protection—the gratitude and protection of the king and queen of Ferelden. This child would be our heir, an heir that we perhaps could never have conceived without your aid."

"Never," Morrigan corrected me. "Without preparations of the sort that are done in this ritual, the taint in your blood would prohibit you from ever being able to conceive a child with Alistair."

The bald, confident statement was a blow, but I shook it off. For now, all that mattered was that Morrigan was thinking about the problem—a major step forward for me, whether she knew it or not. And _of the sort_ —that was interesting. I filed that away for later, and kept my voice calm, persuasive. "All the better, then. You desire power, influence. What price could we set on our child?" Morrigan had gone still, her expression was thoughtful. She was listening. "You would be safe for as long as you live from the Chantry and the Templars," I promised her. "At least within Ferelden's borders. You would be safe from Flemeth's pursuit."

Morrigan tensed and paled, and I knew I had hit a nerve. "What makes you think I fear Flemeth's pursuit?" she asked in a voice that had gone thin and sharp. "You slew her in dragon form in the Kocari Wilds."

I raised a single eyebrow. "You yourself told me that she would survive our battle," I reminded her. "You also told me that this ritual is what she intended when she sent you with us. Do you think she does not have her own use for the child that will result from this ritual, this child with the soul of an old god?"

Morrigan didn't miss a beat. "All the better that it be mine, then," she retorted. "You are unprepared for a true confrontation with Flemeth."

"Not if you stay with us," I pointed out. "You could prepare us for any attack she would make, but the brunt of the attack would be upon us, upon our child." I gave her a cold smile. "All the more because we were the ones who slew her in dragon form in the Kocari Wilds."

"Perhaps. But perhaps not." Despite her ambivalent words, I could see that Morrigan was turning the idea over in her mind. Fear of Flemeth, surviving Flemeth, had long been her highest motivation. Lessening the reasons Flemeth might have to pursue her was a powerful incentive not to bear the child of the ritual herself, but I could also see that she needed more.

"Consider this as well," I told her. "If you help me with this ritual, if I survive, not only will you ensure Flemeth will pursue us and not you when the time comes, guarantee to yourself protection from the Chantry and the Templars within the borders of Ferelden and the eternal gratitude of the king and queen for their heir, and receive freedom from the responsibility of bearing and rearing a child that will yet be a child—Alistair's child—for all it carries the soul of an old god, but you have my word that you may have the teaching of the child, at times."

Morrigan's eyes widened, then focused on me with still greater intensity. "You would do this?" she asked carefully.

"You have my word," I promised again, holding her gaze, daring her to doubt me.

Morrigan knew just how highly I valued my honor. She had seen me time and again refuse to perjure myself, or commit to a course of action I would not keep, even when doing so might ease our way. I had refused to pretend to play for both sides when deciding the kingship in Orzammar, to decrease the danger or preserve a neutral reputation. I had been open with Anora about my intentions to support Alistair for the throne when Anora sought an alliance, and claiming I would aid her could have won her support in the Landsmeet. At these times and many others, Morrigan had urged the path of self-interest and self-preservation, and been frustrated by my refusal to veer from the path of honor. But now—ah, now she could see how the honor that had so confounded her would also work in her favor, and she was arrested. I felt her teetering on the edge of belief and disbelief.

"You may instruct the child of its heritage, teach it of the old ways and the old magics," I told her, elaborating on the role I envisioned for her. "You will be friend and tutor to the child, though not its mother. Is that not better than raising a child yourself whom you will not be able but to resent at times, for its childishness, for whatever of Alistair will exist in it, on the run from Flemeth? And from Alistair," I added. There was admittedly a note of a threat in my voice now. "Because I guarantee you also that whatever he would say tonight, if you were to bear his child, there would come a time when he would seek you and the child out." Morrigan looked troubled. "You know this," I accused her. "One day he would pursue you, and he would have my support in doing so."

Morrigan was silent a long moment. "You make a compelling case," she admitted at last. "You offer me all that I desire—power, freedom, protection. The continuance of the old traditions in a powerful new way, but only upon the slim chance that the ritual succeeds, enacted by you instead of by me. If not, as is most likely, you still may die tomorrow, and I will have nothing. But if I perform the ritual with Alistair tonight, a child is assured, albeit with the drawbacks you have mentioned, and you are certain to live, my friend. Do you not see how such certainty is better than the hazy alternative you propose?" She was making one final effort now to convince me to do things her way, but compared with her last, it was a halfhearted one indeed. She looked thoughtful. The picture I had painted was tempting to her.

"I believe I made myself clear, Morrigan," I said again. "I will not undertake to perform this ritual if I am _not_ the one performing it. I would rather die. Aye, and sacrifice Riordan's life, too. I offer a compromise, with many concessions I would rather not make at all."

"Aye, you fear what the child may be, what I may make of it," Morrigan agreed. "'Tis true as well that you risk a great deal offering me all that you have done, should we succeed. A great deal more, in fact, than you would risk should we perform the ritual my way. Yet this outcome, giving me this power, risking Flemeth's active antagonism, bringing this child with the soul of an old god you fear so much into being yourself—this _is_ preferable to death?"

Her golden eyes searched my face. I swallowed, and dropped my gaze. The emotions were real enough, but they were also the thing that would sway her at last. "Yes," I whispered. "I would not betray myself or Alistair taking such a course. We would not be acting out of fear or selfishness. We would risk much, but . . . if I could avoid death, and conceive Alistair's child, an heir—"

"Ah. For _this_ outcome you would pay any price," Morrigan murmured. Her eyes glittered, and I knew at last I had her. The leverage was too tempting, the power Morrigan would have if we succeeded too great to resist, even with the high risk of failure.

"Not _any_ price," I qualified. "But a very high price. To bear Alistair a child—I would do much and give much indeed." This was the moment that was most dangerous to me, admitting how much I wanted to do all a queen should for Alistair, how much I wanted his child. It was hot embers in my heart just to think of it—Alistair's face as he gazed down at his child, _our_ child, our impossible miracle. In truth, I wouldn't care which of us the child favored in looks, so long as it had his laugh, his generous and kind heart, and his open, loving spirit. I took a breath, and wondered what I wouldn't pay. Morrigan had to know the value of the power she had—that was the gamble I was making—but I knew she could never, never know its true extent.

Morrigan pursed her lips, evaluating me. "So either this sacrifice for love, or the other," she summarized. "That is how it is to be?"

"That is how it is to be," I agreed. "If I live and I have this, you will have all I have promised for helping me. You can refuse to help me, and Riordan may succeed in striking the blow. I may still live, and I will not blame you. I will still be your friend. But you will not have the power and protection you will have should we succeed. You can help me, and I may still die. But if I die and you did not act to help me, you will blame me, for refusing what you offered, but you will also wonder what might have been if you did help me, and while you wonder, you will also know that I went to _my_ death with a clear conscience and a glad heart." I knew I was being somewhat cruel, and very manipulative, but I thought it was more likely to help me than hurt me in this instance.

And indeed it had. Morrigan laughed. "You are a fool," she repeated. "But a rather clever fool, and a very formidable one." She bowed from her seat. "Let it be as you say, _Your Majesty_." There was only a slight mocking emphasis on the title I did not possess as of yet, and that half playful in nature, so I decided to let it go. "Come. We must hurry. There is much to do, and little time in which to do it. I fear you will not sleep tonight, my friend."

"That is nothing," I told her, following Morrigan out the door to help with the preparations that would need to be made in order for me to enact the ritual in Morrigan's place. "Thank you."

"You may not thank me, if we fail. 'Tis likely this will prove in vain," Morrigan warned again.

"Nevertheless, I thank you."


	13. Dawn

xiii.

Dawn

GWYN

The morning air was chill, but the cooling sweat on my body was not the reason I shivered when the rooster cried aloud. Reflexively, I squeezed Alistair's hand, so tightly I knew it must pain him. "Did we finish in time?" he asked, as breathless as I.

I sat up and looked out the window. The sun had not yet risen, but there was a creeping grayness on the horizon that proclaimed it would not be long. Morrigan had stressed it was vital we complete her ritual in the dark of night. "I don't know," I whispered. I shut my eyes. They burned—from tears or lack of sleep.

I felt Alistair move behind me. His warm, strong arms came around me, and I leaned back into his body. "Hey, hey. It's fine. Everything will be all right."

His words echoed with all the uncertainty I felt, and I turned to meet his gaze. If we had not succeeded, because we had run out of night, because Morrigan had been forced to rush the preparations, or because the taint in the two of us was just too strong for all her potions, elixirs, and incantations to combat, the difference would mean a man's life. It might mean our lives as well. Had I been right to make the gamble? Last night I had feigned a certainty before Morrigan I did not feel, because her alternative was unthinkable—but I could not do so now. I searched Alistair's face. "Was I wrong? Because it was me, and not Morrigan—if it didn't work—"

Alistair pulled me to his chest, cutting off my questions. I let my head rest against his shoulder. He kissed my hair, and I could hear his heart pounding, feel the blood still coursing through his veins. Would it still flow in three days? I felt a sob rise in my throat. "I'm glad she came to you," Alistair murmured. "I don't know if I could have been as strong. If it meant there wouldn't be a chance I could lose you . . . one way or another . . . but I can't imagine! Sleeping with that harpy, everything it might mean!"

Outside the window, that void-cursed rooster was still crowing. Other birds had started chirping from the eaves. Whether we were ready or not, whether we had succeeded or not, the dawn was breaking. I wished to the Maker we could shut it out. "Harpy or not, she did much for us last night," I told Alistair. "Sacrificed a sure thing, for our friendship."

I felt him grimace. "Yours, maybe. Morrigan couldn't care less whether I live or die, or how happily I do it."

I sat up. "She's waiting in the courtyard. She'll be able to tell if—"

Alistair nodded. "Do you want me to go with you?"

I swallowed. No matter how much I loved him, I knew that this morning, Alistair was my king, and I was the commander of his armies. In my mind's eye, I saw my own retelling of the old legend—a woman throwing herself beneath what would have been a mortal blow to her king, kneeling at the feet of her enemy to preserve the peace. Both times, Shayna had acted as she had done to preserve Ferelden. I imagined that both times, had she given him the opportunity, King Calenhad would have stopped her.

"If we didn't—I don't want you there." I didn't think I could look Alistair in the face and order him to hold back—not from danger—but from a position where he could court certain death. I didn't think I could tell him I would seek it for myself. "You should see if you can help get the troops ready to march. It will help the men to see their king on the field."

Alistair's brow knit. "Will I—" his mouth set as he decided. "I should say something to them, before we go. Some sort of motivational speech. Kings and commanders do that sort of thing, right?"

He glanced at me, but this time, it wasn't really a question—merely an expression of his nervousness. As I had predicted, in the last week as we rode ahead of the army we had mustered, Alistair had begun to come into his own. The man who had led me and two other terrified recruits through the Wilds was now leading the nation. The man who had come up with our entire defense strategy, as much as he had tried to pass it off onto me and others, was finally beginning to own it. He was afraid. He was inexperienced. He had not been born or raised to lead, but the capability had been in him all along, and I knew he would do his duty, and do it well. Even if—

I kissed him. "You'll do great. I'll meet you in the camp before we march."

I slid out of his arms and off of the bed, but as I reached for my underthings, folded on a chair, Alistair grabbed my arm. I looked at him, but he wouldn't meet my eyes. "Gwyn. If it didn't work—"

I closed my eyes again, and gripped his arm in return, and heard him sigh. "You still did the right thing," he murmured finally, and the words were like a blessing. I opened my eyes. "Maker smile upon us, my Lady Shayna." His mouth twisted. He was clever, Alistair, and here, at the end, he would not hide it. He knew what I would do if we had failed. He knew that if we failed, when we came to Denerim, we might never see each other again.

From that perspective my decision had certainly been the right one. If this had been the last moments we could ever be alone, I was grateful we had spent them together instead of apart, consumed with fear and regret.

I let him hold me until he let me go. We dressed in silence, and parted—he to the captains of dwarves and elves and men waiting in the castle. I to Morrigan and the answer that would determine my fate, and Alistair's, and the fate of Ferelden itself.

Once Alistair had been a bastard, his father unknown. Once I had been the second-born of two living parents with a strong older brother and a nephew to carry on my family line, without responsibility to any other man. Once we had been unimportant. I wished we still were. Grey Wardens were never meant to hold titles and lands. No one could ever serve two masters. But for us, there had been no choice. Grave and terrible—our duty to the land opposed to our duty to its people like this. We risked them both along with our lives opposing the Archdemon.

How would I protect us all, depending on what Morrigan told me? If we had failed to complete her ritual, as Warden-Commander, I could not allow Alistair within a mile of the Archdemon. If Riordan could not kill the Archdemon, Alistair would act to protect me. He knew better, but in the moment, he would be unable to help himself. I had seen it, he had all but said so, after Orzammar. I would place him at the head of our army, in charge of pushing back the bulk of the horde and retaking Denerim. It would still be a dangerous position, a position of honor, but he would have a chance to survive and avoid certain death by killing the Archdemon. I would go with Riordan and a small party to challenge the Archdemon alone. With Sten, Morrigan, and . . . Leliana. For all their friendship, those three could stand and let me do my duty if Riordan fell. They would help me end the Blight, no matter what.

If we had succeeded, though, the entire battle would change. Without risk of any Warden's death slaying the Archdemon, all three of us could take our chance. I would leave Eamon in charge of the army, and Sten to aid him. Morale would suffer, especially among the Fereldens, but it would be that much more likely we could end the Blight once and for all.

However, in the advance party, my own safety would become a priority. Morrigan's ritual protected me from the death of the Archdemon. There would be no shield whatsoever from death on a hurlock's sword. If I now carried Alistair's child, the heir to the throne . . . Wynne and Zevran, I decided. Wynne's skill as a healer had preserved us many times and would do so again.

I could never take Zevran if I knew I might need to sacrifice my life, but if my protection became the priority, he would be invaluable. He had not lied to me when we met about his loyalty—his first instinct was always to defend companions in peril, despite his training as an assassin. I had used him for that more than once. I sometimes felt guilty for all the risks he took, on my behalf especially. I comforted myself with the knowledge that I had never taken anything more than he had offered me of his own free will—and he had never asked me for anything, whatever his feelings. Zevran needed a trustworthy, lasting friend far more than he needed a lover anyway. And that much I would gladly give him, now and in the future. In fact, if we all survived, I rather thought he might enjoy a position as royal spymaster or something in that line.

My thoughts had carried me all through Castle Redcliffe and out into the courtyard. A trumpet in the distance echoed off the stones. I heard a voice shouting from the camps above the village, calling the troops to prepare for the march to Denerim. The horn sounded elven, maybe.

Across the courtyard, a few knights of Redcliffe were already readying their horses by the stables. I wondered if they were eager, or if they were so ready because they, too, had not slept. I saw Bann Teagan Guerrin among them. He had fought with the people of Redcliffe through their darkest hour, even when his knights had urged him to flee. He would be among the first to ride with them now. The bann was a good man—but there were many good men and women marching today. Many would not return. There were many good men and women in Denerim now we would be too late to save.

Outside the gate, I could see the camps stirring across the cliffs. Tents were collapsing. Smoke rose from a hundred campfires, and I could smell sausage and toasting bread as the men cooked their breakfasts before the march. Some of the dwarves were already forming ranks. They were as uncomfortable aboveground as the Dalish elves were fighting beside humans, but all of them had united to fight the darkspawn and end the Blight.

 _Maker defend us_ , I prayed, for all of us, Andrastians and heathens alike, everyone who lived on or under the green earth and had assembled to annihilate the abominations perverting it. _Preserve us all. Forgive us all. Grant us Your favor when we ride today in Your cause. Alistair and I as well. If we have done wrong this night, forgive us._ _Grant us the courage and wisdom to lead these people, today and after, and if it should pass that I should die—save the King. Save Alistair, and give him Your strength to carry on._

I saw a shadow to my left, and looked up, above the gate. Morrigan was sitting there, high on a boulder by the pillars of Eamon's gate. The dawn had not yet reached the place where she sat, cross-legged, keeping vigil like the grim statues the arls and banns of Ferelden sometimes had sculpted to guard the roofs of their fortresses, or the sculptures of the Paragons in the Hall of Heroes in Orzammar. When I waved, she slid off the rock like a snake, landing neatly on her feet in the pale morning light.

There were half-moon shadows beneath her eyes, dark as bruises, the mirror of my own sleepless night. Morrigan's lips were tight, and at her sides, her fists were clenched. I searched her face, and realized I had misjudged her.

She wanted the power I could offer her, the mystic child I could be carrying—but right now I could see that all of that was the furthest thing from her mind. She did not even look angry about the opportunity we might have missed. She only looked worried—worried for me. All night she had worked tirelessly to do to me in hours what she had done to herself over weeks, combating the Blight as well. I had thought Morrigan knew nothing of love and loyalty, that Flemeth had destroyed her ability to understand anything but survival and power. Looking at her pale, drawn face, I knew I had been wrong. "Good morning, Morrigan."

"Is it done?" Morrigan demanded.

"It is."

"When?"

"Before the rooster crowed. Before first light . . . but I am not certain if it was done before dawn had begun," I admitted. Morrigan's eyes flashed, and her tight, bloodless mouth tightened still further. My stomach turned. I had been correct then—mere moments could determine whether we had failed or succeeded. But Morrigan didn't say scold, didn't make some acid comment on Alistair's performance as I might have expected from her. She only breathed sharply in through her nose.

"No matter. We shall soon know whether or not we succeeded in this scheme." Her golden eyes rolled back into her head. She moved her wrists in a quick, mystic gesture, and spoke a few words under her breath. Then she seized my left hand in her right, her thumb upon the pulse point.

The sun came at last over the ridge of Redcliffe, illuminating a clear, beautiful morning. It nearly blinded me for a moment. I waited, and the whole world seemed to hold his breath to hear Morrigan speak words of life . . . or death.

* * *

 **Afterword**

 **Yes, yes. I know. I'm terrible. But, in this fic at least, I don't want to say whether Gwyn's plan to undergo the ritual in Morrigan's place worked or not. I just offer the possibility that** _ **perhaps**_ **it did. Perhaps Morrigan was a good enough witch to make the preparations for Gwyn in one night that she had made for herself over long weeks, combat the taint in Gwyn, and enable Gwyn and Alistair to conceive the child by magic they could never conceive alone, a child that will permit the Grey Warden that slays the Archdemon to survive the blow.**

 **Maybe Gwyn Cousland now carries Alistair's heir, and the kingdom is not only stabilized, but secure because of this. Maybe they will raise that child to be a wise and just ruler after they are gone. Maybe, with Morrigan's help, as Gwyn's promises mean the witch will not be leaving Ferelden for Orlais, Gwyn and Alistair can have more children, though I won't rule out complications as they grow older and the taint within them progresses. Maybe, as we know Fergus Cousland survives, because of those children, both Ferelden at large and Highever in particular will prosper in the future. I don't believe in happily-ever-afters, but maybe, after this, King Alistair Theirin and Queen Gwyn will get something closer to one than they might get otherwise.**

 **But maybe not. Maybe Morrigan and all her magic couldn't guarantee a child from two Grey Wardens after only one night of preparation, or perhaps Gwyn and Alistair finished too late, and even if they did conceive, their child will be incapable of absorbing the soul of the Archdemon. In that case, proceed to Canon Ending B—the Ultimate Sacrifice Gwyn Cousland has said many times she is willing to make for Alistair and for Ferelden. I like that ending. It's clean and good in a way performing the dark ritual with Morrigan never can be.**

 **So you decide whether the "destiny" spoken of in my description was that Gwyn would die for Alistair and save Ferelden, or whether it was that Shayna should live, fight, rule, and eventually die beside her Calenhad this time around in a way never permitted to the original lady (as much as Calenhad might have wished it, if only he hadn't had to marry Mairyn instead—even the unembellished legend indicates Calenhad loved Shayna, for all he was never unfaithful of his own accord). You decide how the story ends. I just wanted to leave the door open for it to end differently than Bioware allowed us to end it, with the Warden and Morrigan still friends, for all Morrigan's offer has been refused, Cousland and Alistair's honor and relationship still intact, and a chance—however small—still extant that both survive the death of the Archdemon.**

 **It's been a pleasure, friends. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. Leave a review if you have something to say,**

 **LMSharp**


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